"I am at home here," he said, "and I have friends. Come! My own apartments are scarcely a stone's-throw away from the Rue Henriette. Estere will see our things safely through the Customs."
We drove through the cold grey twilight to the Rue de St. Antoine, where Feurgéres' apartments were. To my surprise servants were at hand expecting us, and I was shown at once into a suite of rooms, in one of which was a great marble bath all ready for use. Some coffee and a change of clothes were brought me. All my wants seemed to have been anticipated and provided for. I had always imagined Feurgéres to be a man of very simple and homely tastes, but there were no traces of it in his home. He showed me some of the rooms while we waited for breakfast, rooms handsomely furnished and decorated, full of art treasures and curios of many sorts collected from many countries.
But, in a sense, it was like a dead house. One felt that it might be a dwelling of ghosts. There were nowhere any signs of the rooms being used, the habitable air was absent. Everything was in perfect order. There was no dust, none of the chilliness of disuse. Yet one seemed to feel everywhere the sadness of places which exist only for their history. One door only remained closed, and that Feurgéres unlocked with a little key which hung from his chain. But he did not invite me to enter.
"You will excuse me for a few moments," he said. "My housekeeper will show you into the breakfast-room. Please do not wait for me."
An old lady, very primly dressed in black, and wearing a curious cap with long white strings, bustled me away. As Feurgéres opened the door of the room, in front of which we had been standing, the air seemed instantly sweet with the perfume of flowers. The old lady sighed as she poured me out some coffee. I am ashamed to say that I felt, and doubtless I looked, curious.
"Would it not be as well for me to wait for Monsieur Feurgéres?" I asked. "He will not be very long, I suppose?"
The old lady shook her head sadly.
"Ah! but one cannot say!" she answered. "Monsieur had better begin his breakfast."
"Your master has perhaps someone waiting to see him?" I remarked.
Madame Tobain—she told me her name—shook her head once more. She spoke softly, almost as though she were speaking of something sacred.