Minoret took three newspapers,—­one liberal, one ministerial, one ultra,—­a few periodicals, and certain scientific journals, the accumulation of which swelled his library.  The newspapers, encyclopaedias, and books were an attraction to a retired captain of the Royal-Swedish regiment, named Monsieur de Jordy, a Voltairean nobleman and an old bachelor, who lived on sixteen hundred francs of pension and annuity combined.  Having read the gazettes for several days, by favor of the abbe, Monsieur de Jordy thought it proper to call and thank the doctor in person.  At this first visit the old captain, formerly a professor at the Military Academy, won the doctor’s heart, who returned the call with alacrity.  Monsieur de Jordy, a spare little man much troubled by his blood, though his face was very pale, attracted attention by the resemblance of his handsome brow to that of Charles XII.; above it he kept his hair cropped short, like that of the soldier-king.  His blue eyes seemed to say that “Love had passed that way,” so mournful were they; revealing memories about which he kept such utter silence that his old friends never detected even an allusion to his past life, nor a single exclamation drawn forth by similarity of circumstances.  He hid the painful mystery of his past beneath a philosophic gayety, but when he thought himself alone his motions, stiffened by a slowness which was more a matter of choice than the result of old age, betrayed the constant presence of distressful thoughts.  The Abbe Chaperon called him a Christian ignorant of his Christianity.  Dressed always in blue cloth, his rather rigid demeanor and his clothes bespoke the old habits of military discipline.  His sweet and harmonious voice stirred the soul.  His beautiful hands and the general cut of his figure, recalling that of the Comte d’Artois, showed how charming he must have been in his youth, and made the mystery of his life still more mysterious.  An observer asked involuntarily what misfortune had blighted such beauty, courage, grace, accomplishment, and all the precious qualities of the heart once united in his person.  Monsieur de Jordy shuddered if Robespierre’s name were uttered before him.  He took much snuff, but, strange to say, he gave up the habit to please little Ursula, who at first showed a dislike to him on that account.  As soon as he saw the little girl the captain fastened his eyes upon her with a look that was almost passionate.  He loved her play so extravagantly and took such interest in all she did that the tie between himself and the doctor grew closer every day, though the latter never dared to say to him, “You, too, have you lost children?” There are beings, kind and patient as old Jordy, who pass through life with a bitter thought in their heart and a tender but sorrowful smile on their lips, carrying with them to the grave the secret of their lives; letting no one guess it,—­through pride, through disdain, possibly through revenge; confiding in none but God, without other consolation than his.