Later in the evening Dick was sitting on the low veranda of the cafe, overlooking the white road.  A round white table was beside him, his feet were on the railing, but his eyes were resting beyond on the high, mouldy iron gates of the mysterious park.  What he was thinking of did not matter, but he was a little impatient at the sudden appearance of his host—­whom he had evaded during the afternoon—­at his side.  The man’s manner was full of bursting loquacity and mysterious levity.

Truly, it was a good hour when Dick had arrived at Fontonelles,—­“just in time.”  He could see now what a world of imbeciles was France.  What stupid ignorance ruled, what low cunning and low tact could achieve,—­in effect, what jugglers and mountebanks, hypocritical priests and licentious and lying noblesse went to make up existing society.  Ah, there had been a fine excitement, a regular coup d’theatre at Fontonelles,—­the chateau yonder; here at the village, where the news was brought by frightened grooms and silly women!  He had been in the thick of it all the afternoon!  He had examined it,—­interrogated them like a juge d’instruction,—­winnowed it, sifted it.  And what was it all?  An attempt by these wretched priests and noblesse to revive in the nineteenth century—­the age of electricity and Pullman cars—­a miserable mediaeval legend of an apparition, a miracle!  Yes; one is asked to believe that at the chateau yonder was seen last night three times the apparition of Armand de Fontonelles!

Dick started.  “Armand de Fontonelles!” He remembered that she had repeated that name.

“Who’s he?” he demanded abruptly.

“The first Comte de Fontonelles!  When monsieur knows that the first comte has been dead three hundred years, he will see the imbecility of the affair!”

“Wot did he come back for?” growled Dick.

“Ah! it was a legend.  Consider its artfulness!  The Comte Armand had been a hard liver, a dissipated scoundrel, a reckless beast, but a mighty hunter of the stag.  It was said that on one of these occasions he had been warned by the apparition of St. Hubert; but he had laughed,—­for, observe, he always jeered at the priests too; hence this story!—­and had declared that the flaming cross seen between the horns of the sacred stag was only the torch of a poacher, and he would shoot it!  Good! the body of the comte, dead, but without a wound, was found in the wood the next day, with his discharged arquebus in his hand.  The Archbishop of Rouen refused his body the rites of the Church until a number of masses were said every year and—­paid for!  One understands! one sees their ‘little game;’ the count now appears,—­he is in purgatory!  More masses,—­more money!  There you are.  Bah!  One understands, too, that the affair takes place, not in a cafe like this,—­not in a public place,—­but at a chateau of the noblesse, and is seen by—­the proprietor checked the characters on his fingers—­two retainers; one young demoiselle of the noblesse, daughter of the chatelaine herself; and, my faith, it goes without saying, by a fat priest, the Cure!  In effect, two interested ones!  And the priest,—­his lie is magnificent!  Superb!  For he saw the comte in the picture-gallery,—­in effect, stepping into his frame!”