Beside him, clumsily keeping the pace but not the step, was a tallish
effeminate person whose immaculate funereal suit hung loosely upon an
aged and hurrying anatomy. He wore a big black cap on top of his haggard
and remarkably clean-shaven face, the most prominent feature of which was
a red nose, which sniffed a little now and then as if its owner was
suffering from a severe cold. This person emanated age, neatness and
despair. Aside from the nose which compelled immediate attention, his
face consisted of a few large planes loosely juxtaposed and registering
pathos. His motions were without grace. He had a certain refinement. He
could not have been more than forty-five. There was worry on every inch
of him. Possibly he thought that he might die. B. said "He's a Belgian, a
friend of Count Bragard, his name is Monsieur Pet-airs." From time to
time Monsieur Pet-airs remarked something delicately and pettishly in a
gentle and weak voice. His adam's-apple, at such moments, jumped about in
a longish slack wrinkled skinny neck which was like the neck of a turkey.
To this turkey the approach of Thanksgiving inspired dread. From time to
time M. Pet-airs looked about him sidewise as if he expected to see a
hatchet. His hands were claws, kind, awkward and nervous. They twitched.
The bony and wrinkled things looked as if they would like to close
quickly upon a throat.

B. called my attention to a figure squatting in the middle of the _cour_
with his broad back against one of the more miserable trees. This figure
was clothed in a remarkably picturesque manner: it wore a dark
sombrero-like hat with a large drooping brim, a bright red gipsy shirt of
some remarkably fine material with huge sleeves loosely falling, and
baggy corduroy trousers whence escaped two brown, shapely, naked feet. On
moving a little I discovered a face--perhaps the handsomest face that I
have ever seen, of a gold brown color, framed in an amazingly large and
beautiful black beard. The features were finely formed and almost fluent,