Ninny Moulin, who was about thirty-five years of age, wore very much back upon his head a Roman helmet of silver paper.  A voluminous plume of black feathers, rising from a red wood holder, was stuck on one side of this headgear, breaking the too classic regularity of its outline.  Beneath this casque, shone forth the most rubicund and jovial face, that ever was purpled by the fumes of generous wine.  A prominent nose, with its primitive shape modestly concealed beneath a luxuriant growth of pimples, half red, half violet, gave a funny expression to a perfectly beardless face; while a large mouth, with thick lips turning their insides outwards, added to the air of mirth and jollity which beamed from his large gray eyes, set flat in his head.

On seeing this joyous fellow, with a paunch like Silenus, one could not help asking how it was, that he had not drowned in wine, a hundred times over, the gall, bile, and venom which flowed from his pamphlets against the enemies of Ultramontanism, and how his Catholic beliefs could float upwards in the midst of these mad excesses of drink and dancing.  The question would have appeared insoluble, if one had not remembered how many actors, who play the blackest and most hateful first robbers on the stage, are, when off it, the best fellow in the world.

The weather being cold, Ninny Moulin wore a kind of box-coat, which, being half-open, displayed his cuirass of scales, and his flesh-colored pantaloons, finishing just below the calf in a pair of yellow tops to his boots.  Leaning forward in front of the carriage, he uttered wild shouts of delight, mingled with the words:  “Long live the Bacchanal Queen!”—­after which, he shook and whirled the enormous rattle he held in his hand.  Standing beside him, Sleepinbuff waved on high a banner of white silk, on which were the words:  “Love and joy to the Bacchanal Queen!”

Sleepinbuff was about twenty-five years of age.  His countenance was gay and intelligent, surrounded by a collar of chestnut-colored whiskers; but worn with late hours and excesses, it expressed a singular mixture of carelessness and hardihood, recklessness and mockery; still, no base or wicked passion had yet stamped there its fatal impress.  He was the perfect type of the Parisian, as the term is generally applied, whether in the army, in the provinces, on board a king’s ship, or a merchantman.  It is not a compliment, and yet it is far from being an insult; it is an epithet which partakes at once of blame, admiration, and fear; for if, in this sense, the Parisian is often idle and rebellious, he is also quick at his work, resolute in danger, and always terribly satirical and fond of practical jokes.

He was dressed in a very flashy style.  He wore a black velvet jacket with silver buttons, a scarlet waistcoat, trousers with broad blue stripes, a Cashmere shawl for a girdle with ends loosely floating, and a chimney-pot hat covered with flowers and streamers.  This disguise set off his light, easy figure to great advantage.