his countenance also hinted at the easy habits of a libertine, at
the light and reckless passions of the Musketeers formerly so
famous in the annals of gallantry. His gestures, his attitude,
and his manner proclaimed that he had no intention of correcting
himself of his royalism, of his religion, or of his love affairs.

A really fantastic figure came in behind this specimen of "Louis
XIV.'s light infantry"--a nickname given by the Bonapartists to
these venerable survivors of the Monarchy. To do it justice it
ought to be made the principal object in the picture, and it is
but an accessory. Imagine a lean, dry man, dressed like the
former, but seeming to be only his reflection, or his shadow, if
you will. The coat, new on the first, on the second was old; the
powder in his hair looked less white, the gold of the
fleurs-de-lis less bright, the shoulder straps more hopeless and
dog's eared; his intellect seemed more feeble, his life nearer the
fatal term than in the former. In short, he realized Rivarol's
witticism on Champcenetz, "He is the moonlight of me." He was
simply his double, a paler and poorer double, for there was
between them all the difference that lies between the first and
last impressions of a lithograph.

This speechless old man was a mystery to the painter, and always
remained a mystery. The Chevalier, for he was a Chevalier, did
not speak, nobody spoke to him. Was he a friend, a poor relation,
a man who followed at the old gallant's heels as a lady companion
does at an old lady's? Did he fill a place midway between a dog,
a parrot, and a friend? Had he saved his patron's fortune, or
only his life? Was he the Trim to another Captain Toby?
Elsewhere, as at the Baronne de Rouville's, he always piqued