moustachios hung under his chin like two marble stalactites. The rest of
his face was carefully shaved, the skull bare even to the occiput, where
a long tress of white hair was rolled up under his hat. The expression
of his features appeared to me calm and thoughtful. A pair of small,
clear blue eyes and a square chin announced an indomitable will. His
face was long, and the position of the wrinkles lengthened it still
more. All the creases of the forehead were broken in the middle, and
seemed to direct themselves toward the meeting of the eyebrows; two wide
and deep furrows descended perpendicularly to the corners of the lips,
as if the weight of the moustachios had drawn in the muscles of
the face.

I have seen a good many septuagenarians; I have even dissected one who
would have reached a hundred years, if the diligence of Osnabrück had
not passed over his body: but I do not remember to have observed a more
green and robust old age than that of Hadgi-Stavros. He wore the dress
of Tino and of all the islands of the Archipelago. His red cap formed a
large crease at its base around his forehead. He had a vest of black
cloth, faced with black silk, immense blue pantaloons which contained
more than twenty metres of cotton cloth, and great boots of Russia
leather, elastic and stout. The only rich thing in his costume was a
scarf embroidered with gold and precious stones, which might be worth
two or three thousand francs. It inclosed in its folds an embroidered
cashmere purse, a Damascus sanjar in a silver sheath, a long pistol
mounted in gold and rubies, and the appropriate baton.

Quietly seated in the midst of his employees, Hadgi-Stavros moved only
the ends of his fingers and his lips; the lips to dictate his
correspondence, the fingers to count the beads in his chaplet. It was
one of those beautiful chaplets of milky amber which do not serve to