The sudden arrival of the former masters of Sairmeuse filled his
heart with gloomy forebodings. Their coming, he believed, presaged the
greatest misfortunes.

So while he played with his knife and fork, pretending to eat, he was
really occupied in watching his guests, and in studying them with
all the penetration of a priest, which, by the way, is generally far
superior to that of a physician or of a magistrate.

The Duc de Sairmeuse was fifty-seven, but looked considerably younger.

The storms of his youth, the dissipation of his riper years, the great
excesses of every kind in which he had indulged, had not impaired his
iron constitution in the least.

Of herculean build, he was extremely proud of his strength, and of his
hands, which were well-formed, but large, firmly knit and powerful, such
hands as rightly belonged to a gentleman whose ancestors had given many
a crushing blow with ponderous battle-axe in the crusades.

His face revealed his character. He possessed all the graces and all the
vices of a courtier.

He was, at the same time _spirituel_ and ignorant, sceptical and
violently imbued with the prejudices of his class.

Though less robust than his father, Martial was a no less
distinguished-looking cavalier. It was not strange that women raved over
his blue eyes, and the beautiful blond hair which he inherited from his