That night, when he had blown out his candle, he reviewed Thénard’s proposition in the dark. The more he looked at it the more attraction it had for him, and—“Whatever comes of it,” said he to himself, “I will go and see this Captain Berselius to-morrow. The animal seems worth the trouble of inspection.”
CHAPTER III
CAPTAIN BERSELIUS
Next morning was chill and a white Seine mist wrapped Paris in its folds. It clung to the trees of the Avenue Champs Elysées, and it half veiled the Avenue Malakoff as Adams’s fiacre turned into that thoroughfare and drew up at No. 14, a house with a carriage drive, a porter’s lodge, and wrought-iron gates.
The American paid off his cab, rang at the porter’s lodge, was instantly admitted, and found himself in an enormous courtyard domed in with glass. He noted the orange and aloe trees growing in tubs of porcelain, as the porter led him to the big double glass doors giving entrance to the house.
“He’s got the money,” thought Adams, as the glass swing-door was opened by a flunkey as magnificent as a Lord Mayor’s footman, who took the visitor’s card and the card of M. Thénard and presented them to a functionary with a large pale face, who was seated at a table close to the door.
This personage, who was as soberly dressed as an archbishop, and had altogether a pontifical air, raised himself to his feet and approached the visitor.