It was evening—a fine, mellow autumn evening—as I found myself in front of a large, lonely house, in the midst of a neglected-looking garden, the enclosure of which was a dilapidated wall, broken in many places, and admitting glimpses of the disorder and decay within. I pulled the string of the bell, but it was broken; and while I stood uncertain what course to pursue, I caught sight of a man who was leaning over a little balustrade, and apparently watching some fish in a pond at his feet. He was thin and spare-looking, with somewhat the air of premature age; and though dressed in the very simplest manner, there was the unmistakable mark of a gentleman in his appearance.
He seemed to have observed me, but made no sign of recognition as I came towards him. He even turned his head to look at me, and then resumed his former attitude. I believe that I would willingly have retreated at that moment, if I knew how. I felt that my presence there was like an intrusion, and was already ashamed of it. But it was now too late; for, standing erect, and with his hands behind him, he fixed his eyes steadily on me, and asked me my business there. I replied that I wished to speak with Mr. Pitt.
“Do so, then,” rejoined he; “I am he.”
I hesitated for a second or two how to open my communication; but he waited for me without the slightest show of impatience, till, gaining courage, I told him in a few words by what means I had become possessed of a letter, the contents of which I had surmised might by possibility have been intended for him. Short as was my explanation, it seemed to suffice, for he nodded twice or thrice in assent as I went on, and then, taking the letter from my hand, said,—
“Yes, this is for me.”
So saying, he turned away into an alley of the garden to peruse the letter at his leisure.
I remember as well as though it were but yesterday the strange crowd of sensations that pressed upon my mind as I stood there waiting for his return. Astonishment at finding myself in such a presence was the first of these; the second was a surprise to see with how little of awe or embarrassment I bore myself before one whose haughty bearing was the terror of his contemporaries. I did not know enough of life to be aware that the very fact of my humble station was the levelling influence that operated in my favor, and that if, instead of an unknown emissary, I had been the deputed envoy of a great government, I should have found the minister as coldly haughty as I had heard him described.
While I was yet surmising and reasoning with myself, he came up to me, saying,—
“They have arrested Monsieur Ducoste, you said. Is the affair like to be serious?”
“I believe not, sir; his only paper of consequence was this.”