llow hue; it was the colour
of a wax candle, of which his eyes, too, had something of the steady
light. His memory was peculiarly retentive. With him, to have seen a man
once, was to have him like a note in a note-book. His quiet glance took
possession of you. The pupil of his eye received the impression of a
face, and kept it like a portrait. The face might grow old, but Sieur
Clubin never lost it; it was impossible to cheat that tenacious memory.
Sieur Clubin was curt in speech, grave in manner, bold in action. No
gestures were ever indulged in by him. An air of candour won everybody
to him at first; many people thought him artless. He had a wrinkle in
the corner of his eye, astonishingly expressive of simplicity. As we
have said, no abler mariner existed; no one like him for reefing a sail,
for keeping a vessel's head to the wind, or the sails well set. Never
did reputation for religion and integrity stand higher than his. To have
suspected him would have been to bring yourself under suspicion. He was
on terms of intimacy with Monsieur Rebuchet, a money-changer at St.
Malo, who lived in the Rue St. Vincent, next door to the armourer's; and
Monsieur Rebuchet would say, "I would leave my shop in Clubin's hands."

Sieur Clubin was a widower; his wife, like himself, had enjoyed a high
reputation for probity. She had died with a fame for incorruptible
virtue. If the bailli had whispered gallant things in her ear, she would
have impeached him before the king. If a saint had made love to her, she
would have told it to the priest. This couple, Sieur and Dame Clubin,
had realised in Torteval the ideal of the English epithet
"respectable." Dame Clubin's reputation was as the snowy whiteness of
the swan; Sieur Clubin's like that of ermine itself--a spot would have
been fatal to him. He could hardly have picked up a pin without making
inquiries for the owner. He would send round the town-crier about a box
of matches. One day he went into a wine-shop at St. Servan, and said to
the man who kept it, "Three years ago I breakfasted here; you made a
mistake in the bill;" and he returned the man thirteen sous. He was the
very personification of probity, with a certain compression of the lips
indicative of watchfulness.

He seemed, indeed, always on the watch--for what? For rogues probably.

Every Tuesday he commanded the Durande on her passage from Guernsey to
St. Malo. He arrived at St. Malo on the Tuesday evening, stayed two days
t