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.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25