re, dazzled us. On our return from
the schools, a little before the dinner-hour, we were accustomed to go
up to our room and remain there a while, either waiting for the other,
to learn whether there were any change in our plans for the evening. One
day, at four o'clock, Juste met Marcas on the stairs, and I saw him in
the street. It was in the month of November, and Marcas had no cloak;
he wore shoes with heavy soles, corduroy trousers, and a blue
double-breasted coat buttoned to the throat, which gave a military air
to his broad chest, all the more so because he wore a black stock. The
costume was not in itself extraordinary, but it agreed well with the
man's mien and countenance.

My first impression on seeing him was neither surprise, nor distress,
nor interest, nor pity, but curiosity mingled with all these feelings.
He walked slowly, with a step that betrayed deep melancholy, his head
forward with a stoop, but not bent like that of a conscience-stricken
man. That head, large and powerful, which might contain the treasures
necessary for a man of the highest ambition, looked as if it were loaded
with thought; it was weighted with grief of mind, but there was no touch
of remorse in his expression. As to his face, it may be summed up in
a word. A common superstition has it that every human countenance
resembles some animal. The animal for Marcas was the lion. His hair was
like a mane, his nose was sort and flat; broad and dented at the tip
like a lion's; his brow, like a lion's, was strongly marked with a
deep median furrow, dividing two powerful bosses. His high, hairy
cheek-bones, all the more prominent because his cheeks were so thin,
his enormous mouth and hollow jaws, were accentuated by lines of tawny
shadows. This almost terrible countenance seemed illuminated by two
lamps--two eyes, black indeed, but infinitely sweet, calm and deep, full
of thought. If I may say so, those eyes had a humiliated expression.

Marcas was afraid of looking directly at others, not for himself, but
for those on whom his fascinating gaze might rest; he had a power, and
he shunned using it; he would spare those he met, and he feared notice.
This was not from modesty, but from resignation founded on reason, which
had demonstrated the immediate inutility of his gifts, the impossibility
of entering and living in the sphere for which he was fitted. Those eyes
could at times flash lightnings. From those lips a voice of thunder must
surely