an, tracing his mysterious characters in the midst of
profound silence.

The clock struck eight. The dull sound of the knocker at the outer door
was heard, then a bell tinkled twice, several doors opened and shut, and
a new personage entered the chamber. On seeing him, M. Rodin rose
from the desk, stuck his pen between his teeth, bowed with a deeply
submissive air, and sat down again to his work without uttering a word.

The two formed a striking contrast to one another. The newcomer, though
really older than he seemed, would have passed for thirty-six or thirty
eight years of age at most. His figure was tall and shapely, and few
could have encountered the brightness of his large gray eye, brilliant
as polished steel. His nose, broad at the commencement, formed a
well-cut square at its termination; his chin was prominent, and the
bluish tints of his close-shaved beard were contrasted with the bright
carnation of his lips, and the whiteness of his fine teeth. When he took
off his hat to change it for a black velvet cap which he found on the
small table, he displayed a quantity of light chestnut hair, not yet
silvered by time. He was dressed in a long frock-coat, buttoned up to
the neck in military fashion.

The piercing glance and broad forehead of this man revealed a powerful
intellect, even as the development of his chest and shoulders announced
a vigorous physical organization; whilst his gentlemanly appearance, the
perfection of his gloves and boots, the light perfume which hung about
his hair and person, the grace and ease of his least movements, betrayed
what is called the man of the world, and left the impression that he
had sought or might still seek every kind of success, from the most
frivolous to the most serious. This rare combination of strength of
mind, strength of body, and extreme elegance of manners, was in this
instance rendered still more striking by the circumstance, that whatever
there might be of haughtiness or command in the upper part of that
energetic countenance, was softened down, and tempered by a constant
but not uniform smile--for, as occasion served, this smile became
either kind or sly, cordial or gay, discreet or prepossessing, and thus
augmented the insinuating charm of this man, who, once seen, was never
again forgotten. But, in yielding to this involuntary sympathy, the
doubt occurred if the influence was for good--or for evil.

M. Rodin, the secretary of the newcomer, continued to