edges scarred with the eruptions of his over-abundant blood, which
seemed ready to gush at the least exertion. His skin was crimson under
an outside layer of brown, due to the habit of standing in the sun.
The roving gray eyes, deep-sunken, and hidden by bushy black brows,
were like those of the Kalmucks who entered France in 1815; if they
ever sparkled it was only under the influence of a covetous thought.
His broad pug nose was flattened at the base. Thick lips, in keeping
with a repulsive double chin, the beard of which, rarely cleaned more
than once a week, was encircled with a dirty silk handkerchief twisted
to a cord; a short neck, rolling in fat, and heavy cheeks completed
the characteristics of brute force which sculptors give to their
caryatids. Minoret-Levrault was like those statues, with this
difference, that whereas they supported an edifice, he had more than
he could well do to support himself. You will meet many such Atlases
in the world. The man's torso was a block; it was like that of a bull
standing on his hind-legs. His vigorous arms ended in a pair of thick,
hard hands, broad and strong and well able to handle whip, reins, and
pitchfork; hands which his postilions never attempted to trifle with.
The enormous stomach of this giant rested on thighs which were as
large as the body of an ordinary adult, and feet like those of an
elephant. Anger was a rare thing with him, but it was terrible,
apoplectic, when it did burst forth. Though violent and quite
incapable of reflection, the man had never done anything that
justified the sinister suggestions of his bodily presence. To all
those who felt afraid of him his postilions would reply, "Oh! he's not
bad."

The master of Nemours, to use the common abbreviation of the country,
wore a velveteen shooting-jacket of bottle-green, trousers of green
linen with great stripes, and an ample yellow waistcoat of goat's