Implacable as the war then going on between the Church and Calvinism, the count’s forehead was threatening even while he slept.  Many furrows, produced by the emotions of a warrior life, gave it a vague resemblance to the vermiculated stone which we see in the buildings of that period; his hair, like the whitish lichen of old oaks, gray before its time, surrounded without grace a cruel brow, where religious intolerance showed its passionate brutality.  The shape of the aquiline nose, which resembled the beak of a bird of prey, the black and crinkled lids of the yellow eyes, the prominent bones of a hollow face, the rigidity of the wrinkles, the disdain expressed in the lower lip, were all expressive of ambition, despotism, and power, the more to be feared because the narrowness of the skull betrayed an almost total absence of intelligence, and a mere brute courage devoid of generosity.  The face was horribly disfigured by a large transversal scar which had the appearance of a second mouth on the right cheek.

At the age of thirty-three the count, anxious to distinguish himself in that unhappy religious war the signal for which was given on Saint-Bartholomew’s day, had been grievously wounded at the siege of Rochelle.  The misfortune of this wound increased his hatred against the partisans of what the language of that day called “the Religion,” but, by a not unnatural turn of mind, he included in that antipathy all handsome men.  Before the catastrophe, however, he was so repulsively ugly that no lady had ever been willing to receive him as a suitor.  The only passion of his youth was for a celebrated woman called La Belle Romaine.  The distrust resulting from this new misfortune made him suspicious to the point of not believing himself capable of inspiring a true passion; and his character became so savage that when he did have some successes in gallantry he owed them to the terror inspired by his cruelty.  The left hand of this terrible Catholic, which lay on the outside of the bed, will complete this sketch of his character.  Stretched out as if to guard the countess, as a miser guards his hoard, that enormous hand was covered with hair so thick, it presented such a network of veins and projecting muscles, that it gave the idea of a branch of birch clasped with a growth of yellowing ivy.

Children looking at the count’s face would have thought him an ogre, terrible tales of whom they knew by heart.  It was enough to see the width and length of the space occupied by the count in the bed, to imagine his gigantic proportions.  When awake, his gray eyebrows hid his eyelids in a way to heighten the light of his eye, which glittered with the luminous ferocity of a wolf skulking on the watch in a forest.  Under his lion nose, with its flaring nostrils, a large and ill-kept moustache (for he despised all toilet niceties) completely concealed the upper lip.  Happily for the countess, her husband’s wide mouth was silent at this moment, for the softest sounds of that harsh voice made her tremble.  Though the Comte d’Herouville was barely fifty years of age, he appeared at first sight to be sixty, so much had the toils of war, without injuring his robust constitution, dilapidated him physically.