Evening was drawing on, sending a soft twilight into the room, when
Coleman's dinner was brought in by a shy and silent old colored woman.
He had not ordered the meal, nor had he felt the need of it. Doubtless
the stimulus afforded by the unusual character of his surroundings held
his sense of hunger in abeyance.
The old woman retired as soon as she had arranged the repast on a round
mahogany table. Coleman found the oysters, the wine, the broiled fish,
the French bread, and the black coffee excellent to such a degree that
he ate almost everything before him; then leaning far back in his chair
he began to study the silver set from which all those good things had
been taken. The platter was in the form of a flounder, the sugar bowl
was a frog, the cream pitcher a heron, the coffee-pot a pelican. These
curious pieces were exquisitely carved, and on each was cut the name
Favart de Caumartin in plain, bold letters. Even on the five-armed
silver candle-stick in which burned fragrant myrtle wax tapers appeared
that striking inscription. He surveyed the room now with a more critical
eye, discovering at once that the pictures, the curtains, the carpets,
and indeed all the articles of furniture were costly and beautiful
beyond anything he had ever seen before. Evidently he was in Judge
Favart de Caumartin's house.
The moon was shining brilliantly when Coleman went forth for a short
walk in the street. Not many people were abroad, it being the
dinner-hour, but certain cafes were crowded with men and women who were
drinking champagne and discussing the dishes on well-spread tables.
At the door of one these gorgeous rooms Coleman met the young man whom a
few hours before he had seen leading the singers in the street. It
occurred to him that now was as good as any time to present his letter
to the Judge, so he forthwith stepped near him and said, lifting his
hat:
"I believe I have the honor of meeting Judge Favart de Caumartin?"
The gentleman stared at him a moment very deliberately, then, with just
a suspicion of a smile and with a courteous dignity wholly inimitable
and indescribable, doffed his queer little black cap as he spoke:
"And who does me the honor of addressing me?"
"I am Hepworth Coleman of New York?"
"Ah!"
"I hold a letter to you from Mr. Phineas Cartwright, of the firm of
Cartwright & Vanderveer, bankers."
"Indeed! I feel honored."
Coleman produced the letter and tendered it: but not without a vague
feeling of insecurity of some sort. He had not expected this peculiar
reserve and caution on the part of the Judge. Could it be that he was to
be treated as an infliction to be borne for mere policy's sake. His
distrust and doubt, however, were of short duration, for the Judge had
no sooner read the epistle, which was much longer than any mere letter
of introduction, than his whole manner changed. He held out his hand.
"I am charmed, delighted, sir," he said, with a slight creole accent
that made his voice very pleasing. "I am proud to see you. I hope you
find your rooms agreeable."
Coleman clasped his hand and felt that measure of relief which comes
when one is suddenly lifted out of a very awkward situation.
The Judge read the banker's letter over again with great deliberation
and apparently with much concentration of mind, while Coleman, who could
not remove his eyes from his fascinating dark face, stood waiting for an
opportunity to say:
"You do me infinite honor, Judge, in quartering me in your own house. I
had not expected and could not expect such hospitality."
The Judge hesitated, then with a calm smile remarked that whatever he
could do for so distinguished a visitor would be but a small expression
of the greater hospitality that he would like to bestow were he able.
"And now," he presently continued, "come with me to my own private
apartments, where we can have some quiet conversation and a smoke."
Coleman could not fail to see that the Judge was still somewhat touched
with wine, though the mood of wild hilarity had passed off.
They passed along the street until they reached a narrow blind alley
into which the moonlight fell but dimly between dusky walls.
To Coleman's surprise the Judge led the way into this, then up a flight
of winding and rather rickety stairs to a dark hall, along which they
passed to what seemed a great distance. At the end the Judge fumbled for
some time, and by some means opened a low, heavy door leading into a
room that reeked with the odor of tobacco and the fumes of wine. Passing
across this by the light of a dim dormer window they reached a close
passageway which led to another prison-like door, which the Judge
managed to open after a great deal of trouble. The room that they now
entered was exceedingly small--a mere cell in extent, as Coleman felt
rather than saw, the walls, damp and grimy, being almost within reach on
either hand.
"Stand here for one moment, please," said the Judge, touching Coleman's
arm, "until I call a servant."
Then he stepped briskly back through the doorway and drew the solid
shutter to with a hollow clang. Some strange echoes went wandering away
as if from distance to distance, above, below, around, followed by
absolute silence. A faint flicker of light came from above, but it
seemed a reflection rather than a direct beam from the moon, and the air
was close, heavy, atrociously bad.
Coleman stood amazed for a few moments before going to the door, which
he found immovable. He groped around the wall only to discover that
there was no other outlet.