“Monsieur,” said Godefroid, “I am not afraid of robbers, for the same reasons that make those gentlemen invulnerable; and I despise life so heartily that if I were murdered by mistake I should bless the murderer!”

“You do not look to me very unhappy,” said the old man, examining Godefroid.

“I have, at the most, enough to get me bread to live on; and I have come to this place, monsieur, because of its silent neighborhood.  May I ask you what interest you have in driving me away?”

The old man hesitated; he saw Madame Vauthier close behind them.  Godefroid, who examined him attentively, was astonished at the degree of thinness to which grief, perhaps hunger, perhaps toil, had reduced him.  There were signs of all those causes upon that face, where the parched skin clung to the bones as if it had been burned by the sun of Africa.  The dome of the forehead, high and threatening, overshadowed a pair of steel-blue eyes,—­two cold, hard, sagacious, penetrating eyes, like those of savages, surrounded by a black and wrinkled circle.  The large nose, long and very thin, and the prominent chin, gave the old man a strong resemblance to the well-known mask popularly ascribed to Don Quixote; but a wicked Don Quixote, without illusions,—­a terrible Don Quixote.

And yet the old man, in spite of this general aspect of severity, betrayed the weakness and timidity which indigence imparts to all unfortunates.  These two emotions seemed to have made crevices in that solidly constructed face which the pickaxe of poverty was daily enlarging.  The mouth was eloquent and grave; in that feature Don Quixote was complicated with Montesquieu’s president.

His clothing was entirely of black cloth, but cloth that was white at the seams.  The coat, of an old-fashioned cut, and the trousers, showed various clumsy darns.  The buttons had evidently just been renewed.  The coat, buttoned to the chin, showed no linen; and the cravat, of a rusty black, hid the greater part of a false collar.  These clothes, worn for many years, smelt of poverty.  And yet the lofty air of this mysterious old man, his gait, the thought that dwelt on his brow and was manifest in his eyes, excluded the idea of pauperism.  An observer would have hesitated how to class him.

Monsieur Bernard seemed so absorbed that he might have been taken for a teacher employed in that quarter of the city, or for some learned man plunged in exacting and tyrannical meditation.  Godefroid, in any case, would have felt a curiosity which his present mission of benevolence sharpened into powerful interest.

“Monsieur,” continued the old man, “if I were sure that you are really seeking silence and seclusion, I should say take those rooms near mine.”  He raised his voice so that Madame Vauthier, who was now passing them, could hear him.  “Take those rooms.  I am a father, monsieur.  I have only a daughter and a grandson to enable me to bear the miseries of life.  Now, my daughter needs