The Provincial leant back suddenly in his chair, and for some minutes complete silence reigned in the room. He was evidently thinking deeply, and his eyes were fixed upon the open book with inscrutable immobility. Once he glanced slowly towards René Drucquer, who sat with downcast eyes and interlocked fingers. Then he pressed back his elbows and inhaled a deep breath, as if weary of sitting in one position.
“I have met Englishmen,” he said speculatively, “of a type similar—I think—to this man. They never spoke of religion, of themselves or of their own opinion; and yet they were not silent men. Upon most subjects they could converse intelligently, and upon some with brilliancy; but these subjects were invariably treated in a strictly general sense. Such men never argue, and never appear to be highly interested in that of which they happen to be speaking.... They make excellent listeners....” Here the speaker stopped for a moment and passed his long hand downwards across his eyes as if the light were troubling his sight; in doing so he glanced again towards the Abbé's fingers, which were now quite motionless, the knuckles gleaming like ivory.
“... And one never knows quite how much they remember and how much they forget. Perhaps it is that they hear everything ... and forget nothing. Is our friend of this type, my son?”
“I think he is.”
“It is such men as he who have made that little island what it is. They are difficult subjects; but they are liable to sacrifice their opportunities to a mistaken creed they call honour, and therefore they are not such dangerous enemies as they otherwise might have been.”
The Provincial said these words in a lighter manner, almost amounting to pleasantry, and did not appear to notice that the priest moved uneasily in his seat.
“Then,” he continued, “you have learnt nothing of importance during the few days you have passed with him?”
“Nothing, my father.”
“Did he make any attempt to communicate with his friends?”
“He wrote a letter which he requested me to post.”