not dared hope to see the young man alive again.

At the pedagogue's door stood a berline, and within his house there
was a visitor. This was a slight young man of medium stature, who
had not the appearance of more than twenty-five years of age, for
all that, as a matter of fact, he was just over thirty. He was
dressed with so scrupulous a neatness as to convey, in spite of the
dark colour of his garments, an impression almost of foppishness.
There was an amplitude about his cravat, an air of extreme care
about the dressing of his wig and the powdering of it, and a shining
brightness about his buttons and the buckles of his shoes which
seemed to proclaim the dandy, just as the sombreness of the colour
chosen seemed to deny it. In his singularly pale countenance a
similar contradiction was observable. The weak, kindly eyes almost
appeared to give the lie to the astute prominence of his cheekbones;
the sensitiveness of the mouth seemed neutralised by the thinness
of the lips, whilst the oddly tip-tilted nose made a mock of the
austerity of the brow.

He was perfectly at ease in his surroundings, and as La Boulaye was
carried into the schoolmaster's study and laid on a couch, he came
forward and peered curiously at the secretary's figure, voicing an
inquiry concerning him.

"It is the young man of whom I was telling you, Maximilien," answered
Duhamel. "I give thanks to God that they have not killed him
outright. It is a mercy I had not expected from those wolves, and
one which, on my soul, I cannot understand."

"Monsieur," said Gilles, "will understand it better perhaps if I