Then I knew that the Marquis de Carabas was our relation Baron Carl von Lichtenberg, the man at whose house we were to stop. A momentary and inexplicable terror filled my soul, and was banished, giving place to a deep curiosity.
Then I heard steps on the gallery, and the Baron, led by the innkeeper, made his appearance, and, without looking in my direction, entered the sitting-room where my father was.
I heard their greeting, then the door was shut.
Waiters came up with wine. I leaned on the railing, wondering what my father and the stranger were conversing about, and watching the people in the courtyard below. Bambabouff and his supposed partner had entered into an argument that seemed to threaten blows, and I had almost forgotten the Baron and my fear of him, watching the proceedings below, when the sitting-room door opened and my father cried: "Patrick!"
He beckoned me into the room. A haze of cigar-smoke hung in the air, and by the table, on which stood glasses and decanters, sat Baron Carl von Lichtenberg, leaning sideways in his chair, his legs crossed, his arms folded, his dark countenance somewhat drooped, as though he were in meditation.
"This is Patrick," said my father. "Patrick, this is our relation and friend the Baron Carl von Lichtenberg."
I had been taught to salute my elders and superiors in the military style; my dress was the uniform of the French school-boy. I brought my feet together, and, stiff as a ramrod, made the salute. The Baron, with a half-laugh, returned it, sitting straight up in his chair to do so.
Having returned my salute, and spoken a few words, the Baron resumed his conversation with my father; and I, with the apparent heedlessness of childhood, played with Marengo, our boarhound, on the hearthrug before the big fireplace.
I say the apparent heedlessness of childhood. There are few things so deep as the subterfuge of a child. Whilst playing with the dog and pulling his ears, I was listening intently; not a word of the conversation was missed by me. They were talking mostly about the Emperor of the French, a close friend of my father's. He was just then at Biarritz, with the Empress; and the conversation, which included the names of De Morny and half a dozen others, would have been interesting, no doubt, to a diplomat. As I listened, I could tell that the Baron was sustaining the conversation, despite the fact that his thoughts were fixed elsewhere. I could tell that his thoughts were fixed on me; that he was watching me intently, yet furtively, and I knew in some mysterious manner that this man feared me.
Feared me, a child of nine!