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Page 48
So it fell out very well that Admiral Killigrew was fond of
butterflies. Still, he should have been equally glad to know that the
sailor's hobby inclined toward the exploits of pirates. M. Ferraud was
a modest man. That his exquisite brochure on lepidopterous insects was
in nearly all the public libraries of the world only gratified, but
added nothing to his vanity.
As it oftentimes happens to a man whose mind is occupied with other
things, the admiral, who received M. Ferraud in the library, saw
nothing in the name to kindle his recollection. He bade the savant to
be seated while he read the letter of introduction which had been
written by the secretary of the navy.
"MY DEAR KILLIGREW:
"This will introduce to you Monsieur Ferraud, of the butterfly fame.
He has learned of the success of your efforts in the West Indies and
South America and is eager to see your collection. Do what you can for
him. I know you will, for you certainly must have his book. I myself
do not know a butterfly from a June-bug, but it will be a pleasure to
bring you two together."
Breitmann arranged his papers neatly and waited to be dismissed. He
had seen M. Ferraud at Swan's, but had formed no opinion regarding him;
in fact, the growth of his interest had stopped at indifference. On
his part, the new arrival never so much as gave the secretary a second
glance--the first was sufficient. And while the admiral read on, M.
Ferraud examined the broken skin on his palms.
"Mr. Ferraud! Well, well; this is a great honor, I'm sure. It was
very kind of them to send you here. Where is your luggage?"
"I am stopping at Swan's Hotel."
"We shall have your things up this very night."
"Oh!" said Ferraud, in protest; though this was the very thing he
desired.
"Not a word!" The admiral summoned the butler, who was the general
factotem at The Pines, and gave a dozen orders.
"Ah, you Americans!" laughed M. Ferraud, pyramiding his ringers. "You
leave us breathless."
"Your book has delighted me. But I'm afraid my collection will not pay
you for your trouble."
"That is for me to decide. My South American specimens are all
seconds. On the other hand, you have netted yours yourself."
And straightway a bond of friendship was riveted between these two men
which still remains bright and untarnished by either absence or
forgetfulness. They bent over the cases, agreed and disagreed, the one
with the sharp gestures, the other with the rise and fall of the voice.
For them nothing else existed; they were truly engrossed.
Breitmann, hiding a smile that was partly a yawn, stole quietly away.
Butterflies did not excite his concern in the least.
M. Ferraud was charmed. He was voluble. Never had he entered a more
homelike place, large enough to be called a chateau, yet as cheerful as
a writer's fire. And the daughter! Her French was the elegant speech
of Tours, her German Hanoverian. Incomparable! And she was not
married? _Helas_! How many luckless fellows walked the world
desolate? And this was M. Fitzgerald the journalist? And M. Breitmann
had also been one? How delighted he was to be here! All this flowed
on with perfect naturalness; there wasn't a false note anywhere. At
dinner he diffused a warmth and geniality which were infectious. Laura
was pleased and amused; and she adored her father for these impulses
which brought to the board, unexpectedly, such men as M. Ferraud.
M. Ferraud did not smoke, but he dissipated to the extent of drinking
three small cups of coffee after dinner.
"You are right," he acknowledged--there had been a slight dispute
relative to the methods of roasting the berry--"Europe does not roast
its coffee, it burns it. The aroma, the bouquet! I am beaten."
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