"Indeed we shall not refuse," Morhange replied.
We followed M. Le Mesge along a long winding corridor with frequent
steps. The passage was dark. But at intervals rose-colored night
lights and incense burners were placed in niches cut into the solid
rock. The passionate Oriental scents perfumed the darkness and
contrasted strangely with the cold air of the snowy peaks.
From time to time, a white Targa, mute and expressionless as a
phantom, would pass us and we would hear the clatter of his slippers
die away behind us.
M. Le Mesge stopped before a heavy door covered with the same pale
metal which I had noticed on the walls of the library. He opened it
and stood aside to let us pass.
Although the dining room which we entered had little in common with
European dining rooms, I have known many which might have envied its
comfort. Like the library, it was lighted by a great window. But I
noticed that it had an outside exposure, while that of the library
overlooked the garden in the center of the crown of mountains.
No center table and none of those barbaric pieces of furniture that we
call chairs. But a great number of buffet tables of gilded wood, like
those of Venice, heavy hangings of dull and subdued colors, and
cushions, Tuareg or Tunisian. In the center was a huge mat on which a
feast was placed in finely woven baskets among silver pitchers and
copper basins filled with perfumed water. The sight of it filled me
with childish satisfaction.
M. Le Mesge stepped forward and introduced us to the two persons who
already had taken their places on the mat.
"Mr. Spardek," he said; and by that simple phrase I understood how far
our host placed himself above vain human titles.
The Reverend Mr. Spardek, of Manchester, bowed reservedly and asked
our permission to keep on his tall, wide-brimmed hat. He was a dry,
cold man, tall and thin. He ate in pious sadness, enormously.
"Monsieur Bielowsky," said M. Le Mesge, introducing us to the second
guest.
"Count Casimir Bielowsky, Hetman of Jitomir," the latter corrected
with perfect good humor as he stood up to shake hands.
I felt at once a certain liking for the Hetman of Jitomir who was a
perfect example of an old beau. His chocolate-colored hair was parted
in the center (later I found out that the Hetman dyed it with a
concoction of khol). He had magnificent whiskers, also
chocolate-colored, in the style of the Emperor Francis Joseph. His
nose was undeniably a little red, but so fine, so aristocratic. His
hands were marvelous. It took some thought to place the date of the
style of the count's costume, bottle green with yellow facings,
ornamented with a huge seal of silver and enamel. The recollection of
a portrait of the Duke de Morny made me decide on 1860 or 1862; and
the further chapters of this story will show that I was not far wrong.