CHAPTER XVII
Keredec was alone in his salon, extended at ease upon a long chair, an ottoman and a stool, when I burst in upon him; a portentous volume was in his lap, and a prolific pipe, smoking up from his great cloud of beard, gave the final reality to the likeness he thus presented of a range of hills ending in a volcano. But he rolled the book cavalierly to the floor, limbered up by sections to receive me, and offered me a hearty welcome.
“Ha, my dear sir,” he cried, “you take pity on the lonely Keredec; you make him a visit. I could not wish better for myself. We shall have a good smoke and a good talk.”
“You are improved to-day?” I asked, it may be a little slyly.
“Improve?” he repeated inquiringly.
“Your rheumatism, I mean.”
“Ha, yes; that rheumatism!” he shouted, and throwing back his head, rocked the room with sudden laughter. “Hew! But it is gone—almost! Oh, I am much better, and soon I shall be able to go in the woods again with my boy.” He pushed a chair toward me. “Come, light your cigar; he will not return for an hour perhaps, and there is plenty of time for the smoke to blow away. So! It is better. Now we shall talk.”
“Yes,” I said, “I wanted to talk with you.”
“That is a—what you call?—ha, yes, a coincidence,” he returned, stretching himself again in the long chair, “a happy coincidence; for I have wished a talk with you; but you are away so early for all day, and in the evening Oliver, he is always here.”
“I think what I wanted to talk about concerns him particularly.”