straight forehead contracted in a frown of attention, the eyes of an
azure blue, the nose delicately molded, the chin firm. Her bent neck,
especially, of a milky whiteness, looked adorably youthful under the
gold of the clustering curls. In her long black blouse she seemed very
tall, with her slight figure, slender throat, and flexible form, the
flexible slenderness of the divine figures of the Renaissance. In
spite of her twenty-five years, she still retained a childlike air and
looked hardly eighteen.

"And," resumed the doctor, "you will arrange the press a little.
Nothing can be found there any longer."

"Very well, master," she repeated, without raising her head;
"presently."

Pascal had turned round to seat himself at his desk, at the other end
of the room, before the window to the left. It was a plain black
wooden table, and was littered also with papers and pamphlets of all
sorts. And silence again reigned in the peaceful semi-obscurity,
contrasting with the overpowering glare outside. The vast apartment, a
dozen meters long and six wide, had, in addition to the press, only
two bookcases, filled with books. Antique chairs of various kinds
stood around in disorder, while for sole adornment, along the walls,
hung with an old _salon_ Empire paper of a rose pattern, were nailed
pastels of flowers of strange coloring dimly visible. The woodwork of
three folding-doors, the door opening on the hall and two others at
opposite ends of the apartment, the one leading to the doctor's room,
the other to that of the young girl, as well as the cornice of the
smoke-darkened ceiling, dated from the time of Louis XV.