A peculiar smile passed over the face of Delormais. We did not understand it at the moment, but knew its meaning later on.
Then he brought forward the coffee equipage, for which, if truth must be told, though slumber was never farther from us, we were grateful.
"I had it all prepared by our amiable host, and I have my own spirit-lamp, without which I never travel," said the priest. "There are times when I visit the most uncivilised, hope-forgotten places, and if I had not a few accessories with me, should fare badly."
The water soon boiled, an aromatic fragrance spread through the room; the clear black coffee was poured into white porcelain cups.
"But where is the supplement? I do not see the century-old flask," said Delormais.
"That is sacred to headache—or the charm would go; there are other fixed rules besides the Persian laws."
"I am glad to hear it. Then after all my little homily this morning was not needed. That is why you took it so amiably. Only the truth is painful."
He placed for us a comfortably cushioned armchair near the table, and one for himself. Our coffee equipage was between us, the steaming incense rising. A shaded lamp threw its rays upon the white china and crimson cloth, gently illumined the intellectual and refined face of Delormais. We could note every play of the striking features, every flash of the large dark eyes.
A sudden stillness came over him; he seemed lost in profound thought, his eyes took a deep, dreamy, far-away look. They were gazing into the past, and saw a crowd of events and people who had lived and moved and had their being, but were now invisible to all but the mental vision. The hands—firm, white, well-shaped and made for intellectual work—were spread out and met at the tips of the long slender fingers. The legs were crossed, bringing into prominence a shapely foot and ankle set off by a thin well-fitting shoe. In all matters of personal appointment Delormais was refined and fastidious.
For some minutes he appeared thus absorbed in mental retrospect. The man of life and energy had suddenly changed to contemplation. Apparently he had forgotten our presence, and the silence of the room was profound. One almost heard the rising of the incense from the coffee-cups, as it curled upwards in fantastic forms and devices, and died out. We were motionless as himself. Not ours to break the silence, though it grew strained. We had come to listen, and waited until the spirit moved him. Nor had we to wait long. He roused himself from his reverie; the dreamy light passed out of his eyes; his spirit seemed to come back to earth as he turned to us with a penetrating, kindly gaze.