In front of the College d‘Autun, he came to a halt. It was at this college that he had passed through what he was pleased to call his studies, and from a habit learned in his student days he never passed the statue of Cardinal Pierre Bertrand without stopping to mock at it. He therefore paused before the statue as usual. The street was deserted, save for the shadow approaching slowly,—so slowly that he had ample time to observe that it wore a cloak and a hat. Coming close up to him, it stopped, and stood more motionless than the statue of Cardinal Bertrand itself; but it fastened upon Phoebus a pair of eyes full of that vague light seen at night in the pupil of a cat’s eye.
The captain was brave, and would not have cared a farthing for a thief with a bludgeon in his hand; but this walking statue, this petrified man, froze his very blood. At that time there were current in society strange stories of the spectral monk, who prowled the streets of Paris by night. These tales now came confusedly to his mind, and for some moments he stood stupefied; at last he broke the silence with a forced laugh, saying,— “Sir, if you are a robber, as I hope, you remind me of a heron attacking a nutshell; I am the son of a ruined family, my dear fellow. You’ve come to the wrong shop; you’d better go next door. In the chapel of that college there is a piece of the true cross set in silver.”
The hand of the shadow was stretched from under the cloak, and swooped down upon Ph?bus’s arm with the grip of an eagle’s talons. At the same time the shadow spoke:— “Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers!”
“What! the devil!” said Phoebus; “do you know my name?”
“I not only know your name,” replied the man in the cloak, with his sepulchral voice, “but I know that you have a rendezvous this evening!”
“Yes,” answered the astonished Ph?bus.
“At seven o‘clock.”
“In fifteen minutes.”
“At La Falourdel’s.”
“Exactly so.”
“The old hag of the Pont Saint-Michel.”
“Saint Michel the archangel, as the Pater Noster says.”
“Impious wretch!” muttered the spectre. “With a woman?”
“Confiteor.”
“Whose name is—”
“Esmeralda,” said Phoebus, cheerfully. He had gradually recovered all his unconcern.
At this name the shadow’s claws shook the captain’s arm furiously.
“Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers, you lie!”
Any one who could at this moment have seen the captain’s flaming face, his backward bound, so violent that it released him from the vise-like grasp that held him, the haughty air with which he clapped his hand to his sword-hilt, and the gloomy immobility of the man in the cloak in the presence of this rage,—any one who saw all this would have trembled with fear. It was something like the fight between Don Juan and the statue.
“Christ and Satan!” cried the captain; “that is a word which seldom greets the ears of a Chateaupers! You dare not repeat it!”
“You lie!” said the shadow, coldly.
The captain gnashed his teeth. Spectre monk, phantom, superstitions, all were forgotten at this instant. He saw nothing but a man and an insult.
“Ha! it is well!” he stammered in a voice stifled by rage. He drew his sword; then, stuttering,—for anger makes a man tremble as well as fear, “Here! on the spot! Now then! swords! swords! Blood upon these stones!”
But the other never stirred. When he saw his adversary on his guard, and ready to burst with wrath, he said,— “Captain Ph?bus,”—and his voice quivered with bitterness,—“you forget your rendezvous.”
The fits of passion of such men as Phoebus are like boiling milk,—a drop of cold water is enough to check their fury. At these simple words the sword which glittered in the captain’s hand was lowered.
“Captain,” continued the man, “tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, in a month, in ten years, you will find me ready to cut your throat; but keep your rendezvous first.”
“Indeed,” said Phoebus, as if trying to compound with his conscience, “a sword and a girl are both charming things to encounter by appointment; but I do not see why I should miss one for the sake of the other, when I might have both.”
He replaced his sword in his scabbard.
“Go to your rendezvous,” replied the stranger.
“Sir,” answered Ph?bus with some embarrassment, “many thanks for your courtesy. You are right in saying that tomorrow will be time enough for us to cut slashes and button-holes in Father Adam’s doublet. I am obliged to you for allowing me to pass another agreeable quarter of an hour. I did indeed hope to put you to bed in the gutter, and yet be in time for my fair one,—the more so that it is genteel to keep the women waiting a little in such cases. But you look to me like a determined dog, and it is safer to put the party off until tomorrow. I will therefore go to my appointment; it is for seven o‘clock, as you know.” Here Phoebus scratched his ear. “Ah, by my halidom! I forgot; I have not a penny to pay the toll for the use of the garret, and the old hag must be paid in advance. She won’t trust me.”