posed the wrinkled, red, and granulated skin of his neck, would have
compared him to a condor,--all the more because his long nose, sharp
at the tip, increased the likeness by its sanguineous color. His head,
partly bald, would have frightened phrenologists by the shape of its
skull, which was like an ass's backbone, an indication of despotic
will. His grayish eyes, half-covered by filmy, red-veined lids, were
predestined to aid hypocrisy. Two scanty locks of hair of an undecided
color overhung the large ears, which were long and without rim, a sure
sign of cruelty, but cruelty of the moral nature only, unless where it
means actual insanity. The mouth, very broad, with thin lips, indicated
a sturdy eater and a determined drinker by the drop of its corners,
which turned downward like two commas, from which drooled gravy when he
ate and saliva when he talked. Heliogabalus must have been like this.

His dress, which never varied, consisted of a long blue surtout with a
military collar, a black cravat, with waistcoat and trousers of black
cloth. His shoes, very thick soled, had iron nails outside, and inside
woollen linings knit by his wife in the winter evenings. Annette and her
mistress also knit the master's stockings. Rigou's name was Gregoire.

Though this sketch gives some idea of the man's character, no one can
imagine the point to which, in his private and unthwarted life, the
ex-Benedictine had pushed the science of selfishness, good living, and
sensuality. In the first place, he dined alone, waited upon by his wife
and Annette, who themselves dined with Jean in the kitchen, while the
master digested his meal and disposed of his wine as he read "the news."

In the country the special names of journals are never mentioned; they
are all called by the general name of "the news."

Rigou's dinner, like his breakfast and supper, was always of choice
delicacies, cooked with the art which distinguishes a priest's
housekeeper from all other cooks. Madame Rigou made the butter herself
twice a week. Cream was a concomitant of many sauces. The vegetables
came at a jump, as it were, from their frames to the saucepan.
Parisians, who are accustomed to eat the fruits of the earth after they
have had a second ripening in the sun of a city, infected by the air of
the streets, fermenting in close shops, and watered from time to time by
the market-women to give them a deceitful freshness, have little idea of
the exquisite flavors of