Dross | Page 6

For a moment she reflected. She was without self-consciousness, and

spoke with me, a stranger, as easily as she talked to her father.
"A single word?" she echoed. "Yes--a chimera."
At this moment the sound of voices in the corridor made further delay
impossible.
"Perhaps Mademoiselle will allow me to ring for the servant to conduct
me to Monsieur de Clericy's study," I said.
"I will show you the room," replied she; "its door is never closed to me.
I hear voices, which probably betoken the departure of Monsieur
Miste."
The sound, indeed, came distinctly enough to our ears, but it was of one
voice only, the benevolent tones of the Vicomte de Clericy, followed
by his pleasant laugh. If Miste made reply, the words must have been
uttered softly, for I heard them not. I opened the door, and
mademoiselle led the way.
A man was descending the broad staircase which I had lately
mounted--a slim man, who stepped gently. He did not turn, but
continued his way, disappearing in the gloom of the large entrance hall.
I gathered a quick impression of litheness and a noiseless footfall, of a
sleek, black head, and something stirring within me, which was
stronger than curiosity. I wondered why he was quitting the Vicomte's
service. Such was my first sight of Charles Miste, and my first
knowledge of his existence.
The Vicomte had returned to his room, closing the door behind him,
upon which mademoiselle now tapped lightly.
"Father," I heard her say as she entered, "a gentleman wishes to see
you."
As I passed her, I caught the scent of some violets she wore in her dress,
and the spring-like freshness of the odour seemed a part of herself.

The Vicomte received me so graciously that he and not I might have
been the applicant for a situation. Bowing, he peered at me with
short-sighted eyes.
"The English gentleman of yesterday," he said, indicating a chair.
"I took you at your word, Monsieur," I replied, "and now apply for the
post of secretary."
Taking the chair he placed at my disposal, I awaited his further pleasure.
He had seated himself at the writing-table, and was fingering a pen with
thoughtfulness or perhaps hesitation. The table, I noticed, was bare of
the litter which usually cumbers the desk of a busy man. The calendar
lying at his elbow was an ornamental cardboard trifle, embellished with
cupids and simpering shepherdesses--such as girls send to each other at
the New Year. The surroundings, in fact, were indicative rather of a
trifling leisure than of important affairs. The study and writing-table
seemed to me to suggest a pleasant fiction of labours, to which the
Vicomte retired when he desired solitude and a cigarette. I wondered
what my duties might be.
After a pause, the old gentleman raised his eyes--the kindest eyes in the
world--to my face, and I perceived beneath his white lashes a great
benevolence, in company with a twinkling sense of humour.
"Does Monsieur know anything of the politics of this unfortunate
country?" he asked, and he leant forward, his elbows on the bare
writing-table, his attitude suggesting the kind encouragement which a
great doctor will vouchsafe to a timid patient. The old Frenchman's
manner, indeed, aroused in me that which I must be allowed to call my
conscience--a cumbrous machine, I admit, hard to set going and soon
running down. The sport of this adventure, entered into in a spirit of
devilry, seemed suddenly to have shrunk to the dimensions of a
somewhat sorry jest. It was, I now reflected, but a poor game to deceive
an innocent girl and an old man as guileless. Innocence is a great
safeguard.
"Monsieur," I answered, on the spur of the moment, "I have no such

qualities as you naturally seek in a secretary. I received my education at
Eton and at Cambridge University. If you want a secretary to bowl you
a straight ball, or pull a fairly strong oar, I am your man, for I learnt
little else. I possess, indeed, the ordinary education of an English
gentleman, sufficient Latin to misread an epitaph or a motto, and too
little Greek to do me any harm. I have, however, a knowledge of
French, which I acquired at Geneva, whither my father sent me when
I--er--was sent down from Cambridge. I have again quarrelled with my
father. It is an annual affair. We usually quarrel when the hunting ends.
This time it is serious. I have henceforth to make my way in the world.
I am, Monsieur, what you would call a bad subject."
The tolerance with which my abrupt confession was received only
made me the more self-reproachful. The worst of beginning to tell the
truth is that it is so hard to stop. I could