crown of mountains.

No center table and none of those barbaric pieces of furniture that we
call chairs. But a great number of buffet tables of gilded wood, like
those of Venice, heavy hangings of dull and subdued colors, and
cushions, Tuareg or Tunisian. In the center was a huge mat on which a
feast was placed in finely woven baskets among silver pitchers and
copper basins filled with perfumed water. The sight of it filled me
with childish satisfaction.

M. Le Mesge stepped forward and introduced us to the two persons who
already had taken their places on the mat.

"Mr. Spardek," he said; and by that simple phrase I understood how far
our host placed himself above vain human titles.

The Reverend Mr. Spardek, of Manchester, bowed reservedly and asked
our permission to keep on his tall, wide-brimmed hat. He was a dry,
cold man, tall and thin. He ate in pious sadness, enormously.

"Monsieur Bielowsky," said M. Le Mesge, introducing us to the second
guest.

"Count Casimir Bielowsky, Hetman of Jitomir," the latter corrected
with perfect good humor as he stood up to shake hands.

I felt at once a certain liking for the Hetman of Jitomir who was a
perfect example of an old beau. His chocolate-colored hair was parted
in the center (later I found out that the Hetman dyed it with a
concoction of _khol_). He had magnificent whiskers, also
chocolate-colored, in the style of the Emperor Francis Joseph. His
nose was undeniably a little red, but so fine, so aristocratic. His
hands were marvelous. It took some thought to place the date of the
style of the count's costume, bottle green with yellow facings,
ornamented with a huge seal of silver and enamel. The recollection of
a portrait of the Duke de Morny made me decide on 1860 or 1862; and
the further chapters of this story will show that I was not far wrong.

The count made me sit down beside him. One of his first questions was
to demand if I ever cut fives.[9]

[Footnote 9: _Tirer a cinq_, a card game played only for very high
stakes.]

"That depends on how I feel," I replied.

"Well said. I have not done so since 1866. I swore off. A row. The
devil of a party. One day at Walewski's. I cut fives. Naturally I
wasn't worrying any. The other had a four. 'Idiot!' cried the little
Baron de Chaux Gisseux who was laying staggering sums on my table. I
hurled a bottle of champagne at his head. He ducked. It was Marshal
Baillant who got the bottle. A scene! The matter was fix