The Arrow of Gold | Page 7

incredulous, and
considerably surprised. What could this man with such a boulevardier
exterior that he looked positively like, an exile in a provincial town,
and with his drawing-room manner--what could he know of negroes?
Mills, sitting silent with his air of watchful intelligence, seemed to read
my thoughts, waved his pipe slightly and explained: "The Captain is
from South Carolina."
"Oh," I murmured, and then after the slightest of pauses I heard the
second of Mr. J. K. Blunt's declarations.
"Yes," he said. "Je suis Americain, catholique et gentil-homme," in a
tone contrasting so strongly with the smile, which, as it were,
underlined the uttered words, that I was at a loss whether to return the

smile in kind or acknowledge the words with a grave little bow. Of
course I did neither and there fell on us an odd, equivocal silence. It
marked our final abandonment of the French language. I was the one to
speak first, proposing that my companions should sup with me, not
across the way, which would be riotous with more than one "infernal"
supper, but in another much more select establishment in a side street
away from the Cannebiere. It flattered my vanity a little to be able to
say that I had a corner table always reserved in the Salon des Palmiers,
otherwise Salon Blanc, where the atmosphere was legitimist and
extremely decorous besides--even in Carnival time. "Nine tenths of the
people there," I said, "would be of your political opinions, if that's an
inducement. Come along. Let's be festive," I encouraged them.
I didn't feel particularly festive. What I wanted was to remain in my
company and break an inexplicable feeling of constraint of which I was
aware. Mills looked at me steadily with a faint, kind smile.
"No," said Blunt. "Why should we go there? They will be only turning
us out in the small hours, to go home and face insomnia. Can you
imagine anything more disgusting?"
He was smiling all the time, but his deep-set eyes did not lend
themselves to the expression of whimsical politeness which he tried to
achieve. He had another suggestion to offer. Why shouldn't we adjourn
to his rooms? He had there materials for a dish of his own invention for
which he was famous all along the line of the Royal Cavalry outposts,
and he would cook it for us. There were also a few bottles of some
white wine, quite possible, which we could drink out of Venetian
cut-glass goblets. A bivouac feast, in fact. And he wouldn't turn us out
in the small hours. Not he. He couldn't sleep.
Need I say I was fascinated by the idea? Well, yes. But somehow I
hesitated and looked towards Mills, so much my senior. He got up
without a word. This was decisive; for no obscure premonition, and of
something indefinite at that, could stand against the example of his
tranquil personality.
CHAPTER II

The street in which Mr. Blunt lived presented itself to our eyes, narrow,
silent, empty, and dark, but with enough gas-lamps in it to disclose its
most striking feature: a quantity of flag-poles sticking out above many
of its closed portals. It was the street of Consuls and I remarked to Mr.
Blunt that coming out in the morning he could survey the flags of all
nations almost--except his own. (The U. S. consulate was on the other
side of the town.) He mumbled through his teeth that he took good care
to keep clear of his own consulate.
"Are you afraid of the consul's dog?" I asked jocularly. The consul's
dog weighed about a pound and a half and was known to the whole
town as exhibited on the consular fore-arm in all places, at all hours,
but mainly at the hour of the fashionable promenade on the Prado.
But I felt my jest misplaced when Mills growled low in my ear: "They
are all Yankees there."
I murmured a confused "Of course."
Books are nothing. I discovered that I had never been aware before that
the Civil War in America was not printed matter but a fact only about
ten years old. Of course. He was a South Carolinian gentleman. I was a
little ashamed of my want of tact. Meantime, looking like the
conventional conception of a fashionable reveller, with his opera-hat
pushed off his forehead, Captain Blunt was having some slight
difficulty with his latch-key; for the house before which we had
stopped was not one of those many-storied houses that made up the
greater part of the street. It had only one row of windows above the
ground floor. Dead walls abutting on to it indicated that it had a garden.
Its dark front presented no marked architectural character, and in the
flickering light of a