odern elegance; yet his
countenance, his whole person, were destitute of grace, or that
_distingue_ air which is more to be coveted than mere beauty, whether of
face or figure; his movements were stiff and constrained, and his hands
and feet large and coarse. As he approached Madame d'Harville his
insipid and insignificant countenance assumed, all at once, an
expression of the deepest melancholy, too sudden to be genuine;
nevertheless he acted the part as closely to nature as might be. M.
Robert had the air of a man so thoroughly wretched, so oppressed by a
multitude of sorrows, that as he came up to Madame d'Harville she could
not help recalling to mind the fearful mention made by Sarah touching
the violence to which grief such as his might drive him.

"How are you? How are you, my dear sir?" exclaimed the Duke de Lucenay,
interrupting the further approach of the commandant. "I have not had the
pleasure of seeing you since we met at the spas of ----. But what the
devil ails you,--are you ill?"

Hereupon M. Charles Robert assumed a languid and sentimental air, and,
casting a melancholy look towards Madame d'Harville, replied, in a tone
of deep depression:

"Indeed, my lord, I am very far from being well."

"God bless me! Why, what is the matter with you? Ah! I suppose that
confounded plaguy cough still sticks to you," said M. de Lucenay, with
an appearance of the most serious interest in the inquiry.

At this ridiculous question, M. Charles Robert stood for a moment as
though struck dumb with astonishment, but, quickly recovering himself,
said, while his face crimsoned, and his voice trembled with rage, in a
short, firm voice, to M. de Lucenay:

"Since you express so much uneasiness respecting my health, my lord, I
trust you will not fail calling to-morrow to know how I am."

"Upon my life and soul, my dear sir, I--but most certainly I will send,"
said the duke, with a haughty bow to M. Charles Robert, who, coolly
returning it, walked away.

"The best of the joke is," said M. de Lucenay, throwing himself again by
the side of Sarah, "that our tall friend there had no more of a spitting
complaint than the great Turk himself,--unless, indeed, I stumbled upon
the truth without knowing it. Well, he might have that complaint for
anything I know or care. What do you think, Lady Macgregor,--did that
great, tall fellow look, to you, as though he were suffering from _la
pituite_?"[1]

[1] A sort of viscous, phlegmy c