His black eyes had
the fixity of the eyes of a bird of prey, and they were framed, like a
vulture's, by a bluish membrane devoid of lashes. His forehead, low
and narrow, had something menacing. Evidently, this man was under the
yoke of some single and unique thought. His sinewy arm did not belong
to him.
He was followed by a man whom the imaginations of all folk, from those
who shiver in Greenland to those who sweat in the tropics, would paint
in the single phrase: _He was an unfortunate man_. From this phrase,
everybody will conceive him according to the special ideas of each
country. But who can best imagine his face--white and wrinkled, red at
the extremities, and his long beard. Who will see his lean and yellow
scarf, his greasy shirt-collar, his battered hat, his green frock
coat, his deplorable trousers, his dilapidated waistcoat, his
imitation gold pin, and battered shoes, the strings of which were
plastered in mud? Who will see all that but the Parisian? The
unfortunate man of Paris is the unfortunate man _in toto_, for he has
still enough mirth to know the extent of his misfortune. The mulatto
was like an executioner of Louis XI. leading a man to the gallows.
"Who has hunted us out these two extraordinary creatures?" said Henri.
"Faith! there is one of them who makes me shudder," replied Paul.
"Who are you--you fellow who look the most like a Christian of the
two?" said Henri, looking at the unfortunate man.
The mulatto stood with his eyes fixed upon the two young men, like a
man who understood nothing, and who sought no less to divine something
from the gestures and movements of the lips.
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