lounging position on a low chair, he appeared to be under the middle height, a disadvantage apparently more than compensated for in his large and powerful limbs. Coarsely, rather than carelessly dressed, it would have been hard to assign him a profession, though perhaps his general bearing, and some mystic signs that had been traced with gunpowder on the back of his hands, might suggest the impression that he had some connection with sea-service.
“This is my friend, Cesar Haureau,” said Silvain, as they entered. “This, my friend Cesar, is Monsieur Adair, an Englishman, and now you have only to become friends for life.”
The process by which the two visitors to M. Silvain initiated the amiable effort suggested by their host was perhaps but slightly in accordance with the affectionate sentiment. Their keen eyes instantly met, and each attempted a searching estimate of his new acquaintance. M. Cesar Haureau uttered a salutation, of which the most that can be said is that it was as cordial as the brief nod that accompanied it, and Adair, taking little pains to repress a curl of his lip, muttered something about the excess of his happiness, deposited himself in a couch on the opposite corner of the room from that in which his new friend for life was seated, and kindled his cigarette without further speech. The action seemed to hint a similar course to M. Haureau, who drew of a tin case a short black pipe, and in a few moments there was little reason to complain of the effeminate presence of perfumery in that desecrated bower.
M. Silvain made no complaint, but produced a bottle of cognac, and the usual adjuncts, shouted an order or two to his servant, and closing the door, sat down at the table, between his guests.
It is difficult to be silent, whether you are sulky or not, when a lively Frenchman resolves that you shall speak, and is not content with being the sole orator of a party; and although at first neither Adair nor the stranger seemed to evince the least inclination to sociability, M. Silvain’s determined exertions gradually acted as a solvent, and he dexterously entangled first the one and then the other in conversation with himself, finally managing to link them together in a discussion which they approached reluctantly, but in which they at length engaged with some spirit. A few exchanges of the courtesies of the table aided to thaw the guests of M. Silvain, and in half an hour the three were as good friends as tobacco, brandy, and unrighteous talk can make three men, of whom no two would care one farthing if the third were taken out of the group and incontinently hanged. Indeed, such réunions are held by some folks to be pleasanter and healthier than society in which the interlocutors stoop to the weakness of feeling friendly interest in one another, and bore themselves to convince, to advise, or to sympathise.
It might not be exactly profitable to relate the matter of their talk, but those who have had the advantage of joining in such debates—it is false to say that they are sometimes held nearer Pall Mall than is Versailles—will not have much difficulty in comprehending the staple of the discussion. There is one topic which never fails to supply ample theme on such occasions. There are men, of the class that loves such meetings, who have had the good fortune to meet with women in every way worthy of such biographers, and to have obtained, in the course of life, a large amount of anecdotal information bearing upon the general habits, or individual peculiarities, of that portion of the gentler creation. In France, that department of natural history is extensively cultivated, and upon this occasion the two Frenchmen, each in his way, vindicated the honour of his country by parading the results of much observation, and much original and acquired knowledge in regard to the other sex, but it would be doing Ernest Adair an injustice, and making a conventional sacrifice to popular prejudice, were it inferred that for every sly jest from M. Silvain, and every coarse story from M. Haureau, Mr. Adair was not quite prepared with repayment, or that his higher education did not enable him charmingly to vary his immoralities with the additional flavour of a profanity which was Voltairean in everything except wit. Could Matilde have had a reporter in that room but for ten minutes, she would never have again spoken to its owner, and yet he was far the least communicative of the party. How happy ought Englishwomen to be in the thought that those to whom they have given their pure hearts, never, when the wine goes round, or the club smoking-room is merry at midnight, approach discussions, or introduce anecdotes, which only befit profligate Frenchmen, or Englishmen like Mr. Ernest Adair!
But conversation, be it never so curiously flavoured, palls after a time; and unless, as in the Scandinavian theory of the destiny of the world, the end of all things is to be Silence, some new excitement must be found. M. Silvain was not a Scandinavian, and he produced cards. Not caring to take part in the game himself, he found in his duty as a host a graceful excuse for abstaining; and having set his friends at the table, and provided them with ample store of stimulant, he promised them supper, and departed to prepare it.
M. Haureau and Mr. Adair had cemented the new friendship that was to last for life by a lavish interchange of the frankest communications on subjects of the nature that has been indicated; but the confidence which is implied by revelations of one’s affairs of the heart, and one’s views of theology, does not invariably extend itself into similar trustfulness in regard to mundane matters. The keen glance that marked the introduction of the two friends had been exchanged, with increased earnestness, as they drew near to the table, and while they were performing the prefatory operations with the cards. These have been unkindly called the Devil’s picture-books; but had a sketching imp been seated between the curtains of that alcove, he would have probably enriched his patron’s portrait-gallery with the aid of some recollections of the faces of those who were handling the picture-books, and were striving by sidelong and stealthy looks to ascertain the principle on which the play was to be conducted.
Before cutting, Adair filled himself a glass of