The Hotel de la Couronne is situated in one of the finest parts of Lyons. As Ben stood before it, he began to doubt whether he had not better go away with his errand undone. After all, this American gentleman, if there were one in the hotel, would be likely to feel very little interest in a destitute boy claiming to be a fellow-countryman. He might even look upon him as a designing rogue, with a fictitious story of misfortune, practising upon his credulity. Ben's cheek flushed at the mere thought that he might be so regarded.
So he was on the point of going away; but he was nerved by his very desperation to carry out his original plan.
He entered the hotel, and went up to the office.
[268]
"Will monsieur look at some apartments?" asked the landlord's son, a man of thirty.
"No, monsieur—that is, not at present. Is there an American gentleman at present staying in the hotel?"
"Yes. Is monsieur an American?"
Ben replied in the affirmative, and asked for the name of his countryman.
"It is Monsieur Novarro," was the reply.
"Novarro!" repeated Ben to himself. "That sounds more like a Spanish or an Italian name."
"Is that the gentleman monsieur desires to see?"
"From what part of America does Mr. Novarro come?"
The register was applied to, and the answer given was "Havana."
"Havana!" said Ben, disappointed. "Then he will take no interest in me," he thought. "There is very little kindred between a Cuban and an American."
"Would monsieur like to see M. Novarro?"
"I may as well see him," thought Ben, and he answered in the affirmative.
[269]
"There is M. Novarro, now," said the landlord's son; and Ben, turning, saw a tall, very dark-complexioned man, who had just entered.
"M. Novarro, here is a young gentleman who wishes to see you—a countryman of yours."
The Cuban regarded Ben attentively, and not without surprise.
"Have we met before?" he asked, courteously.
"No, sir," answered Ben, relieved to find that the Cuban spoke English; "and I am afraid I am taking a liberty in asking for you."
"By no means! If I can be of any service to you, my friend, you may command me."
"It is rather a long story, Mr. Novarro," Ben commenced.
"Then we will adjourn to my room, where we shall be more at our ease."
Ben followed his new acquaintance to a handsome private parlor on the second floor and seated himself in a comfortable arm-chair, indicated by the Cuban.
[270]
"I will first mention my name," said Ben. "It is Benjamin Baker."
"Baker!" exclaimed the Cuban, in evident excitement. "Who was your father?"
"My father was Dr. John Baker, and lived in Sunderland, Connecticut."
"Is is possible!" ejaculated the Cuban; "you are his son?"
"Did you know my father?" asked Ben, in amazement.
"I never saw him, but I knew of him. I am prepared to be a friend to his son. Now tell me your story."