The black dot gradually increased in size without very much altering in
the shape; for it continued, roughly speaking, to be both round and
black. The black clothes of clerics were not unknown upon those hills;
but these clothes, however clerical, had about them something at once
commonplace and yet almost jaunty in comparison with the cassock or
soutane, and marked the wearer as a man from the northwestern islands,
as clearly as if he had been labelled Clapham Junction. He carried a
short thick umbrella with a knob like a club, at the sight of which his
Latin friend almost shed tears of sentiment; for it had figured in many
adventures that they shared long ago. For this was the Frenchman's
English friend. Father Brown, paying a long-desired but long-delayed
visit. They had corresponded constantly, but they had not met for years.
Father Brown was soon established in the family circle, which was quite
large enough to give the general sense of company or a community. He was
introduced to the big wooden images of the Three Kings, of painted and
gilded wood, who bring the gifts to the children at Christmas; for Spain
is a country where the affairs of the children bulk large in the life of
the home. He was introduced to the dog and the cat and the live-stock
on the farm. But he was also, as it happened, introduced to one
neighbour who, like himself, had brought into that valley the garb and
manners of distant lands.
It was on the third night of the priest's stay at the little chateau
that he beheld a stately stranger who paid his respects to the Spanish
household with bows that no Spanish grandee could emulate. He was a
tall, thin grey-haired and very handsome gentleman, and his hands,
cuffs and cuff-links had something overpowering in their polish. But
his long face had nothing of that languor which is associated with long
cuffs and manicuring in the caricatures of our own country. It was
rather arrestingly alert and keen; and the eyes had an innocent
intensity of inquiry that does not go often with grey hairs. That alone
might have marked the man's nationality, as well the nasal note in his
refined voice and his rather too ready assumption of the vast antiquity
of all the European things around him. This was, indeed, no less a
person than Mr. Grandison Chace, of Boston, an American traveller who
had halted for a time in his American travels by taking a lease of the
adjoining estate; a somewhat similar castle on a somewhat similar hill.
He delighted in his old castle, and he regarded his friendly neighbour
as a local antiquity of the same type. For Flambeau managed, as we have
said, really to look retired in the sense of rooted. He might have grown
there with his own vine and fig-tree for ages. He had resumed his real
family name of Duroc; for the other title of "The Torch" had only been a
title de guerre, like that under which such a man will often wage war on
society. He was fond of his wife and family; he never went farther
afield than was needed for a little shooting; and he seemed, to the
American globe-trotter, the embodiment of that cult of a sunny
respectability and a temperate luxury, which the American was wise
enough to see and admire in the Mediterranean peoples. The rolling stone
from the West was glad to rest for a moment on this rock in the South
that had gathered so very much moss. But Mr. Chace had heard of Father
Brown, and his tone faintly changed, as towards a celebrity. The
interviewing instinct awoke, tactful but tense. If he did try to draw
Father Brown, as if he were a tooth, it was done with the most dexterous
and painless American dentistry.
They were sitting in a sort of partly unroofed outer court of the house,
such as often forms the entrance to Spanish houses. It was dusk turning
to dark; and as all that mountain air sharpens suddenly after sunset, a
small stove stood on the flagstones, glowing with red eyes like a
goblin, and painting a red pattern on the pavement; but scarcely a ray
of it reached the lower bricks of the great bare, brown brick wall that
went soaring up above them into the deep blue night. Flambeau's big
broad-shouldered figure and great moustaches, like sabres, could be
traced dimly in the twilight, as he moved about, drawing dark wine from
a great cask and handing it round. In his shadow, the priest looked very
shrunken and small, as if huddled over the stove; but the American
visitor leaned forward elegantly with his elbow on his knee and his fine
pointed features in the full light; his eyes shone with inquisitive
intelligence.
1102627896
the shape; for it continued, roughly speaking, to be both round and
black. The black clothes of clerics were not unknown upon those hills;
but these clothes, however clerical, had about them something at once
commonplace and yet almost jaunty in comparison with the cassock or
soutane, and marked the wearer as a man from the northwestern islands,
as clearly as if he had been labelled Clapham Junction. He carried a
short thick umbrella with a knob like a club, at the sight of which his
Latin friend almost shed tears of sentiment; for it had figured in many
adventures that they shared long ago. For this was the Frenchman's
English friend. Father Brown, paying a long-desired but long-delayed
visit. They had corresponded constantly, but they had not met for years.
Father Brown was soon established in the family circle, which was quite
large enough to give the general sense of company or a community. He was
introduced to the big wooden images of the Three Kings, of painted and
gilded wood, who bring the gifts to the children at Christmas; for Spain
is a country where the affairs of the children bulk large in the life of
the home. He was introduced to the dog and the cat and the live-stock
on the farm. But he was also, as it happened, introduced to one
neighbour who, like himself, had brought into that valley the garb and
manners of distant lands.
It was on the third night of the priest's stay at the little chateau
that he beheld a stately stranger who paid his respects to the Spanish
household with bows that no Spanish grandee could emulate. He was a
tall, thin grey-haired and very handsome gentleman, and his hands,
cuffs and cuff-links had something overpowering in their polish. But
his long face had nothing of that languor which is associated with long
cuffs and manicuring in the caricatures of our own country. It was
rather arrestingly alert and keen; and the eyes had an innocent
intensity of inquiry that does not go often with grey hairs. That alone
might have marked the man's nationality, as well the nasal note in his
refined voice and his rather too ready assumption of the vast antiquity
of all the European things around him. This was, indeed, no less a
person than Mr. Grandison Chace, of Boston, an American traveller who
had halted for a time in his American travels by taking a lease of the
adjoining estate; a somewhat similar castle on a somewhat similar hill.
He delighted in his old castle, and he regarded his friendly neighbour
as a local antiquity of the same type. For Flambeau managed, as we have
said, really to look retired in the sense of rooted. He might have grown
there with his own vine and fig-tree for ages. He had resumed his real
family name of Duroc; for the other title of "The Torch" had only been a
title de guerre, like that under which such a man will often wage war on
society. He was fond of his wife and family; he never went farther
afield than was needed for a little shooting; and he seemed, to the
American globe-trotter, the embodiment of that cult of a sunny
respectability and a temperate luxury, which the American was wise
enough to see and admire in the Mediterranean peoples. The rolling stone
from the West was glad to rest for a moment on this rock in the South
that had gathered so very much moss. But Mr. Chace had heard of Father
Brown, and his tone faintly changed, as towards a celebrity. The
interviewing instinct awoke, tactful but tense. If he did try to draw
Father Brown, as if he were a tooth, it was done with the most dexterous
and painless American dentistry.
They were sitting in a sort of partly unroofed outer court of the house,
such as often forms the entrance to Spanish houses. It was dusk turning
to dark; and as all that mountain air sharpens suddenly after sunset, a
small stove stood on the flagstones, glowing with red eyes like a
goblin, and painting a red pattern on the pavement; but scarcely a ray
of it reached the lower bricks of the great bare, brown brick wall that
went soaring up above them into the deep blue night. Flambeau's big
broad-shouldered figure and great moustaches, like sabres, could be
traced dimly in the twilight, as he moved about, drawing dark wine from
a great cask and handing it round. In his shadow, the priest looked very
shrunken and small, as if huddled over the stove; but the American
visitor leaned forward elegantly with his elbow on his knee and his fine
pointed features in the full light; his eyes shone with inquisitive
intelligence.
The Secret of Father Brown
The black dot gradually increased in size without very much altering in
the shape; for it continued, roughly speaking, to be both round and
black. The black clothes of clerics were not unknown upon those hills;
but these clothes, however clerical, had about them something at once
commonplace and yet almost jaunty in comparison with the cassock or
soutane, and marked the wearer as a man from the northwestern islands,
as clearly as if he had been labelled Clapham Junction. He carried a
short thick umbrella with a knob like a club, at the sight of which his
Latin friend almost shed tears of sentiment; for it had figured in many
adventures that they shared long ago. For this was the Frenchman's
English friend. Father Brown, paying a long-desired but long-delayed
visit. They had corresponded constantly, but they had not met for years.
Father Brown was soon established in the family circle, which was quite
large enough to give the general sense of company or a community. He was
introduced to the big wooden images of the Three Kings, of painted and
gilded wood, who bring the gifts to the children at Christmas; for Spain
is a country where the affairs of the children bulk large in the life of
the home. He was introduced to the dog and the cat and the live-stock
on the farm. But he was also, as it happened, introduced to one
neighbour who, like himself, had brought into that valley the garb and
manners of distant lands.
It was on the third night of the priest's stay at the little chateau
that he beheld a stately stranger who paid his respects to the Spanish
household with bows that no Spanish grandee could emulate. He was a
tall, thin grey-haired and very handsome gentleman, and his hands,
cuffs and cuff-links had something overpowering in their polish. But
his long face had nothing of that languor which is associated with long
cuffs and manicuring in the caricatures of our own country. It was
rather arrestingly alert and keen; and the eyes had an innocent
intensity of inquiry that does not go often with grey hairs. That alone
might have marked the man's nationality, as well the nasal note in his
refined voice and his rather too ready assumption of the vast antiquity
of all the European things around him. This was, indeed, no less a
person than Mr. Grandison Chace, of Boston, an American traveller who
had halted for a time in his American travels by taking a lease of the
adjoining estate; a somewhat similar castle on a somewhat similar hill.
He delighted in his old castle, and he regarded his friendly neighbour
as a local antiquity of the same type. For Flambeau managed, as we have
said, really to look retired in the sense of rooted. He might have grown
there with his own vine and fig-tree for ages. He had resumed his real
family name of Duroc; for the other title of "The Torch" had only been a
title de guerre, like that under which such a man will often wage war on
society. He was fond of his wife and family; he never went farther
afield than was needed for a little shooting; and he seemed, to the
American globe-trotter, the embodiment of that cult of a sunny
respectability and a temperate luxury, which the American was wise
enough to see and admire in the Mediterranean peoples. The rolling stone
from the West was glad to rest for a moment on this rock in the South
that had gathered so very much moss. But Mr. Chace had heard of Father
Brown, and his tone faintly changed, as towards a celebrity. The
interviewing instinct awoke, tactful but tense. If he did try to draw
Father Brown, as if he were a tooth, it was done with the most dexterous
and painless American dentistry.
They were sitting in a sort of partly unroofed outer court of the house,
such as often forms the entrance to Spanish houses. It was dusk turning
to dark; and as all that mountain air sharpens suddenly after sunset, a
small stove stood on the flagstones, glowing with red eyes like a
goblin, and painting a red pattern on the pavement; but scarcely a ray
of it reached the lower bricks of the great bare, brown brick wall that
went soaring up above them into the deep blue night. Flambeau's big
broad-shouldered figure and great moustaches, like sabres, could be
traced dimly in the twilight, as he moved about, drawing dark wine from
a great cask and handing it round. In his shadow, the priest looked very
shrunken and small, as if huddled over the stove; but the American
visitor leaned forward elegantly with his elbow on his knee and his fine
pointed features in the full light; his eyes shone with inquisitive
intelligence.
the shape; for it continued, roughly speaking, to be both round and
black. The black clothes of clerics were not unknown upon those hills;
but these clothes, however clerical, had about them something at once
commonplace and yet almost jaunty in comparison with the cassock or
soutane, and marked the wearer as a man from the northwestern islands,
as clearly as if he had been labelled Clapham Junction. He carried a
short thick umbrella with a knob like a club, at the sight of which his
Latin friend almost shed tears of sentiment; for it had figured in many
adventures that they shared long ago. For this was the Frenchman's
English friend. Father Brown, paying a long-desired but long-delayed
visit. They had corresponded constantly, but they had not met for years.
Father Brown was soon established in the family circle, which was quite
large enough to give the general sense of company or a community. He was
introduced to the big wooden images of the Three Kings, of painted and
gilded wood, who bring the gifts to the children at Christmas; for Spain
is a country where the affairs of the children bulk large in the life of
the home. He was introduced to the dog and the cat and the live-stock
on the farm. But he was also, as it happened, introduced to one
neighbour who, like himself, had brought into that valley the garb and
manners of distant lands.
It was on the third night of the priest's stay at the little chateau
that he beheld a stately stranger who paid his respects to the Spanish
household with bows that no Spanish grandee could emulate. He was a
tall, thin grey-haired and very handsome gentleman, and his hands,
cuffs and cuff-links had something overpowering in their polish. But
his long face had nothing of that languor which is associated with long
cuffs and manicuring in the caricatures of our own country. It was
rather arrestingly alert and keen; and the eyes had an innocent
intensity of inquiry that does not go often with grey hairs. That alone
might have marked the man's nationality, as well the nasal note in his
refined voice and his rather too ready assumption of the vast antiquity
of all the European things around him. This was, indeed, no less a
person than Mr. Grandison Chace, of Boston, an American traveller who
had halted for a time in his American travels by taking a lease of the
adjoining estate; a somewhat similar castle on a somewhat similar hill.
He delighted in his old castle, and he regarded his friendly neighbour
as a local antiquity of the same type. For Flambeau managed, as we have
said, really to look retired in the sense of rooted. He might have grown
there with his own vine and fig-tree for ages. He had resumed his real
family name of Duroc; for the other title of "The Torch" had only been a
title de guerre, like that under which such a man will often wage war on
society. He was fond of his wife and family; he never went farther
afield than was needed for a little shooting; and he seemed, to the
American globe-trotter, the embodiment of that cult of a sunny
respectability and a temperate luxury, which the American was wise
enough to see and admire in the Mediterranean peoples. The rolling stone
from the West was glad to rest for a moment on this rock in the South
that had gathered so very much moss. But Mr. Chace had heard of Father
Brown, and his tone faintly changed, as towards a celebrity. The
interviewing instinct awoke, tactful but tense. If he did try to draw
Father Brown, as if he were a tooth, it was done with the most dexterous
and painless American dentistry.
They were sitting in a sort of partly unroofed outer court of the house,
such as often forms the entrance to Spanish houses. It was dusk turning
to dark; and as all that mountain air sharpens suddenly after sunset, a
small stove stood on the flagstones, glowing with red eyes like a
goblin, and painting a red pattern on the pavement; but scarcely a ray
of it reached the lower bricks of the great bare, brown brick wall that
went soaring up above them into the deep blue night. Flambeau's big
broad-shouldered figure and great moustaches, like sabres, could be
traced dimly in the twilight, as he moved about, drawing dark wine from
a great cask and handing it round. In his shadow, the priest looked very
shrunken and small, as if huddled over the stove; but the American
visitor leaned forward elegantly with his elbow on his knee and his fine
pointed features in the full light; his eyes shone with inquisitive
intelligence.
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The Secret of Father Brown
The Secret of Father Brown
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940013682528 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing |
| Publication date: | 01/21/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 162 KB |
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