The Call of the Blood | Page 2

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.
"I've come to hear about it all," he said, in his resonant voice--a voice which matched his appearance. "Do you know"--and here his accent was grave, almost reproachful--"that in all your letters to me--I looked them over before I left Paris--there is no allusion, not one, to this Monsieur Delarey."
"Why should there be?" she answered.
She sat down, but Artois continued to stand.
"We seldom wrote of persons, I think. We wrote of events, ideas, of work, of conditions of life; of man, woman, child--yes--but not often of special men, women, children. I am almost sure--in fact, quite sure, for I've just been reading them--that in your letters to me there is very little discussion of our mutual friends, less of friends who weren't common to us both."
As she spoke she stretched out a long, thin arm, and pulled open the drawer into which she had put the bundle tied with twine.
"They're all in here."
"You don't lock that drawer?"
"Never."
He looked at her with a sort of severity.
"I lock the door of the room, or, rather, it locks itself. You haven't noticed it?"
"No."
"It's the same as the outer door of a flat. I have a latch-key to it."
He said nothing, but smiled. All the sudden grimness had gone out of his face.
Hermione withdrew her hand from the drawer holding the letters.
"Here they are!"
"My complaints, my egoism, my ambitions, my views--Mon Dieu! Hermione, what a good friend you've been!"
"And some people say you're not modest!"
"I--modest! What is modesty? I know my own value as compared with that of others, and that knowledge to others must often seem conceit."
She began to untie the packet, but he stretched out his hand and stopped her.
"No, I didn't come from Paris to read my letters, or even to hear you read them! I came to hear about this Monsieur Delarey."
Selim stole in with tea and stole out silently, shutting the door this time. As soon as he had gone, Artois drew a case from his pocket, took out of it a pipe, filled it, and lit it. Meanwhile, Hermione poured out tea, and, putting three lumps of sugar into one of the cups, handed it to Artois.
"I