it; he looked almost like a postilion at a fancy ball. Underneath that
felted covering, moulded to the top of the wearer's cranium, appeared
an elderly profile, half-official, half-soldierly, with a comical
admixture of arrogance,--altogether something like caricatures of the
_Constitutionnel_. The sometime official finding that age, and
hair-powder, and the conformation of his spine made it impossible to
read a word without spectacles, sat displaying a very creditable
expanse of chest with all the pride of an old man with a mistress. Like
old General Montcornet, that pillar of the Vaudeville, he wore earrings.
Denisart was partial to blue; his roomy trousers and well-worn
greatcoat were both of blue cloth.

"'How long is it since that old fogy came here?' inquired Maxime,
thinking that he saw danger in the spectacles.

"'Oh, from the beginning,' returned Antonia, 'pretty nearly two
months ago now.'

"'Good," said Maxime to himself, 'Cerizet only came to me a month
ago.--Just get him to talk,' he added in Antonia's ear; 'I want to
hear his voice.'

"'Pshaw,' said she, 'that is not so easy. He never says a word to
me.'

"'Then why does he come here?' demanded Maxime.

"'For a queer reason,' returned the fair Antonia. 'In the first
place, although he is sixty-nine, he has a fancy; and because he is
sixty-nine, he is as methodical as a clock face. Every day at five