an analyst pause, but the man's bonhomie, quite ecclesiastical, was
instantly disarming. Madame was no beauty, but possessed a certain
bizarre charm and was always surrounded. She, however, remained silent
and did nothing to encourage her voluble admirers. As void of prudery as
her husband, she listened impassively, absently, with her thoughts
evidently afar, to the boldest of conversational imprudences.

At one of these evening parties, while La Rousseil, recently converted,
howled a hymn, Durtal, sitting in a corner having a quiet smoke, had
been struck by the physiognomy and bearing of Des Hermies, who stood out
sharply from the motley throng of defrocked priests and grubby poets
packed into Chantelouve's library and drawing-room.

Among these smirking and carefully composed faces, Des Hermies,
evidently a man of forceful individuality, seemed, and probably felt,
singularly out of place. He was tall, slender, somewhat pale. His eyes,
narrowed in a frown, had the cold blue gleam of sapphires. The nose was
short and sharp, the cheeks smooth shaven. With his flaxen hair and
Vandyke he might have been a Norwegian or an Englishman in not very good
health. His garments were of London make, and the long, tight,
wasp-waisted coat, buttoned clear up to the neck, seemed to enclose him
like a box. Very careful of his person, he had a manner all his own of
drawing off his gloves, rolling them up with an almost inaudible
crackling, then seating himself, crossing his long, thin legs, and
leaning over to the right, reaching into the patch pocket on his left
side and bringing forth the embossed Japanese pouch which contained his
tobacco and cigarette papers.

He was methodic, guarded, and very cold in the presence of strangers.
His superior and somewhat bored attitude, not exactly relieved by his