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.