highly developed.

My instincts chimed with Scipio's, for I had not the slightest doubt
that before me stood Monsieur Dominique Gayarre. It was he.

A man of small stature he was, and thinly built, but evidently one who
could endure a great deal before parting with life. He had all the
subtle wiry look of the _carnivora_, as well as their disposition. The
eyes, as already observed, obliqued strongly downwards. The balls were
not globe-shaped, but rather obtuse cones, of which the pupil was the
apex. Both pupils and irides were black, and glistened like the eyes of
a weasel. They seemed to sparkle in a sort of habitual smile; but this
smile was purely cynical and deceptive. If any one knew themselves
guilty of a weakness or a crime they felt certain that Dominique Gayarre
knew it, and it was at this he was laughing. When a case of misfortune
did really present itself to his knowledge, his smile became more
intensely satirical, and his small prominent eyes sparkled with evident
delight. He was a lover of himself and a hater of his kind.

For the rest, he had black hair, thin and limp--shaggy dark brows, set
obliquely--face without beard, of pale cadaverous hue, and surmounted by
a parrot-beak nose of large dimensions. His dress had somewhat of a
professional cut, and consisted of dark broadcloth, with vest of black
satin; and around his neck, instead of cravat, he wore a broad black
ribbon. In age he looked fifty.

The doctor felt my pulse, asked me how I had slept, looked at my tongue,
felt my pulse a second time, and then in a kindly way desired me to keep
myself "as quiet as possible." As an inducement to do so he told me I
was still very weak, that I had lost a good deal of blood, but hoped
that a few days would restore me to my strength. Scipio was charged
with my diet, and was ordered to prepare tea, toast, and broiled
chicken, for my breakfast.

The doctor did not inquire how I came by my wound. This I thought
somewhat strange, but ascribed it to his desire that I should remain
quiet. He fancied, no doubt, that any allusion to the circumstances of
the preceding night might cause me unnecessary excitement. I was too
anxious about Antoine to remain silent, and inquired the news. Nothing
more had been heard of him. He was certainly lost.

I recounted the circumstances under which I had parted with him, and of
course described my encounter with the bully, and how I had received the
wound. I cou