Clean-shaven, his skin tanned and reddened by sun and cold, he didn’t look like the Robledo of the photograph. And yet ... there was something familiarly distinctive about him, something Torre Bianca recognized as having once formed a part of his own life.... Something in the vigorous curve of the shoulders, something about his energetic robustness.
“Robledo!”
The friends embraced; and the servant, convinced now that his presence was superfluous, left the room.
As they smoked and talked, Robledo and Torre Bianca looked at one another with eager interest, putting out a hand now and then to assure themselves that the long absent friend was really there.
It was the Marquis who betrayed the greater curiosity.
“Will you be able to stay long in Paris?” he inquired.
“Oh, just a few months....”
He felt the need, he added, of a long draught of civilization, after spending ten years in American deserts, absorbed in the strenuous task of building roads, railroads and canals across their wide extent.
“I want to find out if the Paris restaurants still deserve their reputation, and see if the French wines are as good as they used to be. And I haven’t had any fromage de Brie for years—no other country in the world can make it—and I’m hungry for some!”
The Marquis laughed. The same old Robledo, ready to go three thousand miles to have a meal in Paris! And then, with great interest, he inquired: