The Grey Cloak

"Monsieur Paul?" cried the handsome widow of Monsieur Boisjoli,

stepping from behind the pastry counter.

"Yes, Mignon, it is I," said the Chevalier; "that is, what remains of

me."

"What happiness to see you again!" she exclaimed. She turned to a

waiter. "Charlot, bring Monsieur le Chevalier the pheasant pie, the

ragout of hare, and a bottle of chambertin from the bin of '36."

"Sorceress!" laughed the Chevalier; "you have sounded the very soul of

me. Thanks, Mignon, thanks! Next to love, what is more to a man than

a full stomach? Ah, you should have seen me when I came in! And devil

take this nose of mine; not even steam and water have thawed the frost

from it." He chucked her under the chin and smiled comically, all of

which made manifest that the relations existing between the hostess of

the Candlestick and her principal tenant were of the most cordial and

Platonic character.

"And you have just returned from Rome? Ah, what a terrible ride!"

"Abominable, Mignon."

"And I see you hungry!" She sighed, and her black eyes grew moist and

tender. Madame Boisjoli was only thirty-two. She was young.

"But alive, Mignon, alive; don't forget that."

"You have had adventures?" eagerly; for she was a woman who loved the

recital of exploits. Monsieur Boisjoli had fallen as a soldier at

Charenton.

"Adventures? Oh, as they go," slapping his rapier and his pockets

which had recently been very empty.

"You have been wounded?"

"Only in the pockets, dear, and in the tender quick of comfort. And

will you have Charlot hasten that pie? I can smell it from afar, and

my mouth waters."

"This moment, Monsieur;" and she flew away to the kitchens.

The Chevalier took this temporary absence as an opportunity to look

about him. Only one table was occupied. This occupant was a priest

who was gravely dining off black bread and milk served in a wooden

bowl. But for the extreme pallor of his skin, which doubtless had its

origin in the constant mortification of the flesh, he would have been a

singularly handsome man. His features were elegantly designed, but it

was evident that melancholy had recast them in a serious mold. His

face was clean-shaven, and his hair clipped, close to the skull. There

was something eminently noble in the loftiness of the forehead, and at

the same time there was something subtly cruel in the turn of the

nether lip, as though the spirit and the flesh were constantly at war.

He was young, possibly not older than the Chevalier, who was thirty.

The priest, as if feeling the Chevalier's scrutiny, raised his eyes.

As their glances met, casually in the way of gratifying a natural

curiosity, both men experienced a mental disturbance which was at once

strange and annoying. Those large, penetrating grey eyes; each seemed

to be looking into his own as in a mirror.