eyebrows with eyes like those of an ambushed chapard gave him the
ferocious aspect of a Kalmuck, of some frontier savage living by war and
rapine. Fortunately the lower part of the face, the fleshy and strong
lip which was lightened now and then by a smile adorable in its
kindness, quite redeemed, by an expression like that of a St. Vincent de
Paul, this fierce ugliness, this physiognomy so original that it was
no longer vulgar. An inferior extraction, however, betrayed itself yet
again by the voice, the voice of a Rhone waterman, raucous and thick,
in which the southern accent became rather uncouth than hard, and by two
broad and short hands, hairy at the back, square and nailless fingers
which, laid on the whiteness of the table-cloth, spoke of their past
with an embarrassing eloquence. Opposite him, on the other side of the
table at which he was one of the habitual guests, was seated the Marquis
de Monpavon, but a Monpavon presenting no resemblance to the painted
spectre of whom we had a glimpse in the last chapter. He was now a
haughty man of no particular age, fine majestic nose, a lordly bearing,
displaying a large shirt-front of immaculate linen crackling beneath
the continual effort of the chest to throw itself forward, and bulging
itself out each time with a noise like that made by a white turkey when
it struts in anger, or by a peacock when he spreads his tail. His name
of Monpavon suited him well.

Of great family and of a wealthy stock, but ruined by gambling and
speculation, the friendship of the Duc de Mora had secured him an
appointment as receiver-general in the first class. Unfortunately
his health had not permitted him to retain this handsome
position--well-informed people said his health had nothing to do with
it--and for the last year he had been living in Paris, awaiting his
restoration to health, according to his own account of the matter,
before resuming his post. The same people were confident that he