When the door had closed behind René Drucquer the Provincial rose from his seat and slowly paced backwards and forwards from the door to the table. Presently he drew aside the curtain which hid a small recess near the door, whore a simple bed and a small table were concealed. With a brush he smoothed back his sleek hair, and, dipping the ends of his fingers into a basin of water, he wiped them carefully. Thus he prepared to receive Christian Vellacott.
He returned to his chair and seated himself somewhat wearily. Although there were but few papers on the table, he had three hours' hard work before him yet. He leant back, and again, that singular gesture, as if to stroke a moustache that was not there, was noticeable.
“I have a dull presentiment,” he muttered reflectively, “that we have made a mistake here. We have gone about it in the wrong way, and if there is blame to be attached to any one, Talma is the man. That temper of his is fatal!”
After a pause he heaved a weary sigh, and stretched his long arms out on either side, enjoying a free and open yawn.
“Ah me!” he sighed, “what an uphill fight this has become, and day by day it grows harder. Day by day we lose power; one hold after another slips from our grasp. Perhaps it means that this vast organisation is effete—perhaps, after all, we are dying of inanition, and yet—yet it should not be, for we have the people still.... Ah! I hear footsteps. This is our journalistic friend, no doubt. I think he will prove interesting.”
A moment later someone knocked softly at the door. There was a slight shuffling of feet, and Christian Vellacott entered the room alone. There was a peculiar dull expression in his eyes, as if he were suffering pain, mental or physical. After glancing at the mirror, the Provincial rose and bowed formally with his hand upon the back of his chair. As the Englishman came forward the Jesuit glanced at his face, and with a polite motion of the hand he said:
“Sir, take the trouble of seating yourself,” speaking in French at once, with no apology, as if well aware that his companion knew that language as perfectly as his own.
“Thank you,” replied Christian. He drew the chair slightly forward as he seated himself, and fixed his eyes upon the Jesuit's face. Through the entire interview he never removed his gaze, and he noticed that until the last words were spoken those soft, deep eyes were never raised to his.
“I suppose,” said the Jesuit at length, almost humbly, “that we are irreconcilable enemies, Mr. Vellacott?”
The manner in which this was spoken did not bear the slightest resemblance to the cold superiority with which René Drucquer had been treated.