had no cloak; he wore shoes with heavy soles, corduroy trousers, and a
blue double-breasted coat buttoned to the throat, which gave a
military air to his broad chest, all the more so because he wore a
black stock. The costume was not in itself extraordinary, but it
agreed well with the man's mien and countenance.

My first impression on seeing him was neither surprise, nor distress,
nor interest, nor pity, but curiosity mingled with all these feelings.
He walked slowly, with a step that betrayed deep melancholy, his head
forward with a stoop, but not bent like that of a conscience-stricken
man. That head, large and powerful, which might contain the treasures
necessary for a man of the highest ambition, looked as if it were
loaded with thought; it was weighted with grief of mind, but there was
no touch of remorse in his expression. As to his face, it may be
summed up in a word. A common superstition has it that every human
countenance resembles some animal. The animal for Marcas was the lion.
His hair was like a mane, his nose was sort and flat; broad and dented
at the tip like a lion's; his brow, like a lion's, was strongly marked
with a deep median furrow, dividing two powerful bosses. His high,
hairy cheek-bones, all the more prominent because his cheeks were so
thin, his enormous mouth and hollow jaws, were accentuated by lines of
tawny shadows. This almost terrible countenance seemed illuminated by
two lamps--two eyes, black indeed, but infinitely sweet, calm and
deep, full of thought. If I may say so, those eyes had a humiliated
expression.

Marcas was afraid of looking directly at others, not for himself, but
for those on whom his fascinating gaze might rest; he had a power, and
he shunned using it; he would spare those he met, and he feared
notice. This was not from modesty, but from resignation founded on