He recovered his composure very quickly, however; and turned carelessly towards the door.  “If you will follow me,” he said, “I will see you disposed of.  You may have to complain of your lodging—­I have other things to think of to-night than hospitality, But you shall not need to complain of your supper.”

He drew aside the curtain as he spoke, and passed into the next room before us, not giving a thought apparently to the possibility that we might strike him from behind.  There certainly was an odd quality apparent in him at times which seemed to contradict what we knew of him.

The room we entered was rather long than wide, hung with tapestry, and lighted by silver lamps.  Rich plate, embossed, I afterwards learned, by Cellini the Florentine—­who died that year I remember—­and richer glass from Venice, with a crowd of meaner vessels filled with meats and drinks covered the table; disordered as by the attacks of a numerous party.  But save a servant or two by the distant dresser, and an ecclesiastic at the far end of the table, the room was empty.

The priest rose as we entered, the Vidame saluting him as if they had not met that day.  “You are welcome M. le Coadjuteur,” he said; saying it coldly, however, I thought.  And the two eyed one another with little favour; rather as birds of prey about to quarrel over the spoil, than as host and guest.  Perhaps the Coadjutor’s glittering eyes and great beak-like nose made me think of this.

“Ho! ho!” he said, looking piercingly at us—­and no doubt we must have seemed a miserable and dejected crew enough.  “Who are these?  Not the first-fruits of the night, eh?”

The Vidame looked darkly at him.  “No,” he answered brusquely.  “They are not.  I am not particular out of doors, Coadjutor, as you know, but this is my house, and we are going to supper.  Perhaps you do not comprehend the distinction.  Still it exists —­for me,” with a sneer.

This was as good as Greek to us.  But I so shrank from the priest’s malignant eyes, which would not quit us, and felt so much disgust mingled with my anger that when Bezers by a gesture invited me to sit down, I drew back.  “I will not eat with you,” I said sullenly; speaking out of a kind of dull obstinacy, or perhaps a childish petulance.

It did not occur to me that this would pierce the Vidame’s armour.  Yet a dull red showed for an instant in his cheek, and he eyed me with a look, that was not all ferocity, though the veins in his great temples swelled.  A moment, nevertheless, and he was himself again.  “Armand,” he said quietly to the servant, “these gentlemen will not sup with me.  Lay for them at the other end.”

Men are odd.  The moment he gave way to me I repented of my words.  It was almost with reluctance that I followed the servant to the lower part of the table.  More than this, mingled with the hatred I felt for the Vidame, there was now a strange sentiment towards him—­almost of admiration; that had its birth I think in the moment, when I held his life in my hand, and he had not flinched.