color of a vine-leaf, his blue eyes, a trumpet nose, a thick-lipped
mouth, and a double-chin, the dear old fellow excited, whenever he
appeared among strangers who did not know him, that satirical laugh
which Frenchmen so generously bestow on the ludicrous creations Dame
Nature occasionally allows herself, which Art delights in exaggerating
under the name of caricatures.

But in Maitre Mathias, mind had triumphed over form; the qualities of
his soul had vanquished the oddities of his body. The inhabitants of
Bordeaux, as a rule, testified a friendly respect and a deference that
was full of esteem for him. The old man's voice went to their hearts
and sounded there with the eloquence of uprightness. His craft
consisted in going straight to the fact, overturning all subterfuge
and evil devices by plain questionings. His quick perception, his long
training in his profession gave him that divining sense which goes to
the depths of conscience and reads its secret thoughts. Though grave
and deliberate in business, the patriarch could be gay with the gaiety
of our ancestors. He could risk a song after dinner, enjoy all family
festivities, celebrate the birthdays of grandmothers and children, and
bury with due solemnity the Christmas log. He loved to send presents
at New Year, and eggs at Easter; he believed in the duties of a
godfather, and never deserted the customs which colored the life of
the olden time. Maitre Mathias was a noble and venerable relic of the
notaries, obscure great men, who gave no receipt for the millions
entrusted to them, but returned those millions in the sacks they were
delivered in, tied with the same twine; men who fulfilled their trusts
to the letter, drew honest inventories, took fatherly interest in
their clients, often barring the way to extravagance and dissipation,
--men to whom families confided their secrets, and who felt so
responsible for any error in their deeds that they meditated long and