. He had a great arched skull,
the forehead and the hands of a musician, and a pair of haunting eyes. It
was not merely that these eyes were large, or steady, or the softest
ruddy brown. There was a look in them, besides, which thrilled the
Doctor, and made him half uneasy. He was sure he had seen such a look
before, and yet he could not remember how or where. It was as if this
boy, who was quite a stranger to him, had the eyes of an old friend or an
old enemy. And the boy would give him no peace; he seemed profoundly
indifferent to what was going on, or rather abstracted from it in a
superior contemplation, beating gently with his feet against the bars of
the chair, and holding his hands folded on his lap. But, for all that,
his eyes kept following the Doctor about the room with a thoughtful
fixity of gaze. Desprez could not tell whether he was fascinating the
boy, or the boy was fascinating him. He busied himself over the sick
man: he put questions, he felt the pulse, he jested, he grew a little hot
and swore: and still, whenever he looked round, there were the brown eyes
waiting for his with the same inquiring, melancholy gaze.

At last the Doctor hit on the solution at a leap. He remembered the look
now. The little fellow, although he was as straight as a dart, had the
eyes that go usually with a crooked back; he was not at all deformed, and
yet a deformed person seemed to be looking at you from below his brows.
The Doctor drew a long breath, he was so much relieved to find a theory
(for he loved theories) and to explain away his interest.

For all that, he despatched the invalid with unusual haste, and, still
kneeling with one knee on the floor, turned a little round and looked the
boy over at his leisure. The boy was not in the least put out, but
looked placidly back at the Doctor.

'Is this your father?' asked Desprez.

'Oh, no,' returned the boy; 'my master.'

'Are you fond of him?' continued the Doctor.

'No, sir,' said the boy.

Madame Tentaillon and Desprez exchanged expressive glances.

'That is bad, my man,' resumed the latter, with a shade of sternness.
'Every one should be fond of the dying, or conceal their sentiments; and
your master here is dying. If I have watched a bird a little while
stealing my cherries, I have a thought of disappointment when he flies
away over my garden wall, and I see him steer for the forest and vanish.
How much more a creature such as this, so strong, so a