“Nevertheless,” replied M. Georges, gruffly, “you are not easily beaten; it is for you to play first, Monsieur Lebeau.” Graham almost started. Was it possible! This mild, limp-whiskered, flaxen-wigged man Victor de Mauleon, the Don Juan of his time; the last person in the room he should have guessed. Yet, now examining his neighbour with more attentive eye, he wondered at his stupidity in not having recognized at once the ci-devant gentilhomme and beau garcon. It happens frequently that our imagination plays us this trick; we form to ourselves an idea of some one eminent for good or for evil,—a poet, a statesman, a general, a murderer, a swindler, a thief. The man is before us, and our ideas have gone into so different a groove that he does not excite a suspicion; we are told who he is, and immediately detect a thousand things that ought to have proved his identity.
Looking thus again with rectified vision at the false Lebeau, Graham observed an elegance and delicacy of feature which might, in youth, have made the countenance very handsome, and rendered it still good-looking, nay, prepossessing. He now noticed, too, the slight Norman accent, its native harshness of breadth subdued into the modulated tones which bespoke the habits of polished society. Above all, as M. Lebeau moved his dominos with one hand, not shielding his pieces with the other (as M. Georges warily did), but allowing it to rest carelessly on the table, he detected the hands of the French aristocrat,—hands that had never done work; never (like those of the English noble of equal birth) been embrowned or freckled, or roughened or enlarged by early practice in athletic sports; but hands seldom seen save in the higher circles of Parisian life,—partly perhaps of hereditary formation, partly owing their texture to great care begun in early youth, and continued mechanically in after life,—with long taper fingers and polished nails; white and delicate as those of a woman, but not slight, not feeble; nervous and sinewy as those of a practised swordsman.
Graham watched the play, and Lebeau good-naturedly explained to him its complications as it proceeded; though the explanation, diligently attended to by M. Georges, lost Lebeau the game.
The dominos were again shuffled, and during that operation M. Georges said, “By the way, Monsieur Lebeau, you promised to find me a locataire for my second floor; have you succeeded?”
“Not yet. Perhaps you had better advertise in ‘Les Petites Affiches.’ You ask too much for the habitues of this neighbourhood,—one hundred francs a month.”
“But the lodging is furnished, and well too, and has four rooms. One hundred francs are not much.”
A thought flashed upon Graham. “Pardon, Monsieur,” he said, “have you an appartement de garcon to let furnished?”
“Yes, Monsieur, a charming one. Are you in search of an apartment?”
“I have some idea of taking one, but only by the month. I am but just arrived at Paris, and I have business which may keep me here a few weeks. I do but require a bedroom and a small cabinet, and the rent must be modest. I am not a milord.”
“I am sure we could arrange, Monsieur,” said M. Georges, “though I could not well divide my logement. But one hundred francs a month is not much!”