There was something more than picturesque, there was something mysterious and even spiritual in the aspect of this singular little maritime town, as seen for the first time in the starlight midnight, overshadowed by its background of Noirmont Heights, and reflected with its few gleaming lights in the still waters of its quiet little harbor—St. Aubins! it is a place for a tired spirit to stop and rest in.
The hour was not yet so late but that some of the hotels were open, especially as they were expecting the arrival of the boat.
Our passengers landed. Some few carriages were waiting, probably by appointment. Prince Ernest and his suite entered one of these and drove off.
Alexander, accompanied by Francis Tredegar, and followed by his servant bearing the carpet bags, walked dreamily up into the town, and took the direction pointed out to him towards the St. Aubins’ hotel.
In fact, all his life now seemed something unreal, visionary, delirious as a fevered dream.
Arrived at the hotel, they first saw the empty carriage of Prince Ernest turning away from the door, and they knew as a certainty what they had before taken for granted—that their adversaries were stopping at the same house, which was far the best in the place.
They took a suite of rooms, including a private parlor and two bed-chambers.
“We will have a bit of supper up here and then to work,” said Francis Tredegar, touching the bell. Francis was now the only active agent in the enterprise.
The waiter answered his summons.
“Supper immediately. Anything in the world that you have handiest, with a bottle of good sherry,” was Mr. Tredegar’s orders.