“I confess it.”
“And a stranger to the Faubourg Montmartre.”
“True.”
“Or you would have heard of M. Giraud, the liveliest member of the State Company for conducting funerals. They are going to play La Poule.”
Much disconcerted, Graham retreated into the cafe, and seated himself haphazard at one of the small tables. Glancing round the room, he saw no one in whom he could conjecture the once brilliant Vicomte.
The company appeared to him sufficiently decent, and especially what may be called local. There were some blouses drinking wine, no doubt of the cheapest and thinnest; some in rough, coarse dresses, drinking beer. These were evidently English, Belgian, or German artisans. At one table, four young men, who looked like small journeymen, were playing cards. At three other tables, men older, better dressed, probably shop-keepers, were playing dominos. Graham scrutinized these last, but among them all could detect no one corresponding to his ideal of the Vicomte de Mauleon. “Probably,” thought he, “I am too late, or perhaps he will not be here this evening. At all events, I will wait a quarter of an hour.” Then, the garcon approaching his table, he deemed it necessary to call for something, and, still in strong English accent, asked for lemonade and an evening journal. The garcon nodded and went his way. A monsieur at the round table next his own politely handed to him the “Galignani,” saying in very good English, though unmistakably the good English of a Frenchman, “The English journal, at your service.”
Graham bowed his head, accepted the “Galignani,” and inspected his courteous neighbour. A more respectable-looking man no Englishman could see in an English country town. He wore an unpretending flaxen wig, with limp whiskers that met at the chin, and might originally have been the same colour as the wig, but were now of a pale gray,—no beard, no mustache. He was dressed with the scrupulous cleanliness of a sober citizen,—a high white neckcloth, with a large old-fashioned pin, containing a little knot of hair covered with glass or crystal, and bordered with a black framework, in which were inscribed letters,—evidently a mourning pin, hallowed to the memory of lost spouse or child,—a man who, in England, might be the mayor of a cathedral town, at least the town-clerk. He seemed suffering from some infirmity of vision, for he wore green spectacles. The expression of his face was very mild and gentle; apparently he was about sixty years old,—somewhat more.
Graham took kindly to his neighbour, insomuch that, in return for the “Galignani,” he offered him a cigar, lighting one himself.
His neighbour refused politely.
“Merci! I never smoke, never; mon medecin forbids it. If I could be tempted, it would be by, an English cigar. Ah, how you English beat us in all things,—your ships, your iron, your tabac,—which you do not grow!”