As Hermione read the letters one by one her face showed a panorama of
expressions, almost laughably indicative of her swiftly passing thoughts.
Sometimes she smiled. Once or twice she laughed aloud, startling the dog,
who lifted his massive head and gazed at her with profound inquiry. Then
she shook her head, looked grave, even sad, or earnest and full of
sympathy, which seemed longing to express itself in a torrent of
comforting words. Presently she put the letters together, tied them up
carelessly with a piece of twine, and put them back into the drawer from
which she had taken them. Just as she had finished doing this the door of
the room, which was ajar, was pushed softly open, and a dark-eyed,
Eastern-looking boy dressed in livery appeared.
"What is it, Selim?" asked Hermione, in French.
"Monsieur Artois, madame."
"Emile!" cried Hermione, getting up out of her chair with a sort of eager
slowness. "Where is he?"
"He is here!" said a loud voice, also speaking French.
Selim stood gracefully aside, and a big man stepped into the room and
took the two hands which Hermione stretched out in his.
"Don't let any one else in, Selim," said Hermione to the boy.
"Especially the little Townly," said Artois, menacingly.
"Hush, Emile! Not even Miss Townly if she calls, Selim."
Selim smiled with grave intelligence at the big man, said, "I understand,
madame," and glided out.
"Why, in Heaven's name, have you--you, pilgrim of the Orient--insulted
the East by putting Selim into a coat with buttons and cloth trousers?"
exclaimed Artois, still holding Hermione's hands.
"It's an outrage, I know. But I had to. He was stared at and followed,
and he actually minded it. As soon as I found out that, I trampled on all
my artistic prejudices, and behold him--horrible but happy! Thank you for
coming--thank you."
She let his hands go, and they stood for a moment looking at each other
in the firelight.
Artois was a tall man of about forty-three, with large, almost Herculean
limbs, a handsome face, with regular but rather heavy features, and very
big gray eyes, that always looked penetrating and often melancholy. His
forehead was noble and markedly intellectual, and his well-shaped,
massive head was covered with thick, short, mouse-colored hair. He wore a
mustache and a magnificent beard. His barber, who was partly responsible
for the latter, always said of it that it was the "most beautiful
fan-shaped beard in Paris," and regarded it with a pride which was
probably shared by its owner. His hands and feet were good,
capable-looking, but not clumsy, and his whole appearance gave an
impression of power, both physical and intellectual, and of indomitable
will combined with subtlety. He was well dressed, fashionably not
artistically, yet he suggested an artist, not necessarily a painter. As
he looked at Hermione the smile which had played about his lips when he
entered the little room died away.