is royalism, of his religion, or of his love affairs.

A really fantastic figure came in behind this specimen of "Louis XIV.'s
light infantry"--a nickname given by the Bonapartists to these venerable
survivors of the Monarchy. To do it justice it ought to be made the
principal object in the picture, and it is but an accessory. Imagine
a lean, dry man, dressed like the former, but seeming to be only his
reflection, or his shadow, if you will. The coat, new on the first, on
the second was old; the powder in his hair looked less white, the gold
of the fleurs-de-lis less bright, the shoulder straps more hopeless and
dog's eared; his intellect seemed more feeble, his life nearer the fatal
term than in the former. In short, he realized Rivarol's witticism on
Champcenetz, "He is the moonlight of me." He was simply his double, a
paler and poorer double, for there was between them all the difference
that lies between the first and last impressions of a lithograph.

This speechless old man was a mystery to the painter, and always
remained a mystery. The Chevalier, for he was a Chevalier, did not
speak, nobody spoke to him. Was he a friend, a poor relation, a man who
followed at the old gallant's heels as a lady companion does at an
old lady's? Did he fill a place midway between a dog, a parrot, and a
friend? Had he saved his patron's fortune, or only his life? Was he
the Trim to another Captain Toby? Elsewhere, as at the Baronne de
Rouville's, he always piqued curiosity without satisfying it. Who,
after the Restoration, could remember the attachment which, before the
Revolution, had bound this man to his friend's wife, dead now these
twenty year?

The leader, who appeared the least dilapidated of these wrecks, came
gallantly up to Madame de Rouville, kissed her hand, and sat down by
her. The other bowed and placed himself not far from his model, at
a distance represented by two chairs. Adelaide came behind the old
gentleman's armchair and leaned her elbows on the back, unconsciously
imitating the attitude given to Dido's sister by Guerin in his famous
picture.

Though the gentleman's familiarity was that of a father, his freedom
seemed at the moment to annoy the young girl.

"What, are you sulky with me?" he said.

Then he shot at Schinner one of those side-looks full of shrewdness
and cunning, diplomatic looks, whose expression betrays the discreet
uneasiness, the polite curiosity of well-bred people, and seems to ask,
wh