The Spiritualist

In quest of local colour in that part of France that once was known as
Languedoc, I spent a week last autumn in the little village of
Aubepine. I stayed at the Hotel du Cerf, whereof Jules Coupri is host,
and for companions of an evening I had the village notary, a couple of
grocers, a haberdasher--who was in his way a leader of fashion in
Aubepine--the postmaster, and half-a-dozen young farmers, who were in
the habit of coming there to drink their petit-vin and exchange their
ideas.

A student of human nature in my humble way, I made a point of mingling
freely with them, and I am afraid that their patience and good nature
drew me to talk a good deal. But on the eve of my departure I was for
once cast into the shade by a young seafaring man of the better sort,
who was, he informed us, on his way to Carcassonne. He expatiated upon
the wonders of Greece and Italy with such eloquent picturesqueness
that he monopolised the attention which hitherto I had enjoyed without
competition.

But my revenge was to come. Towards nine o'clock a tall, swarthy man,
dressed in black clothes, which, if seedy, were of more or less
fashionable cut, and wearing a chimney-pot hat, stalked into the room,
and called for the landlord. He wanted supper as quickly as possible
for himself and his driver--he travelled in a ramshackle carriage--and
announced to all that he must push on that night to St. Hilaire. He
was evil-looking of face, yet not without distinction. The nose was
thin as the bill of an eagle, and as curved; the forehead high and
narrow, with absurdly long, black hair brushed straight back; the eyes
were close-set and piercing; the mouth little more than a straight
line above the square, lean chin. He was on the whole a striking
individual, and from the moment of his advent he absorbed the
attention of all present.

Seemingly aware of the impression he had created, he came over to the
table at which I sat, and fell easily into conversation with those
about upon small matters of provincial interest. In less than five
minutes the sailor and his voyages were forgotten.

I was still speculating upon the man's business in life--for I am of
those who believe that a man bears upon him the outward signs of his
profession--when a young farmer happened to mention that his vineyards
had been doing badly for the last three years--ever since his
brother's death. The stranger's gimlet eyes were instantly turned upon
him.