hat in the days of July he had been slightly wounded,
and that his only fear, while he lay on the ground, was that if he
died, some mischance might prevent Clotilde from weeping over his
grave. 'But now all is well,' he continued. 'I am going to fetch a
nice little sum from my uncle at Marseilles, who is just at this
moment in good-humour, on account of the discomfiture of the Jesuits
and the Bourbons. In my character of one of the heroes of July, he
will forgive me all my present and past follies: I shall pass an
examination at Paris, and then settle down in quiet, and live happily
with my Clotilde.' Thus they talked together; and by and by we parted
in the court-yard of the coach-office.

Close by was a brilliantly illumined coffee-house. I entered, and
seated myself at a little table, in a distant corner of the room. Two
persons only were still in the saloon, in an opposite corner, and
before them stood two glasses of brandy. One was an elderly, stately,
and portly gentleman, with dark-red face, and dressed in a quiet
coloured suit; it was easy to perceive that he was a clergyman. But
the appearance of the other was very striking. He could not be far
from sixty years of age, was tall and thin, and his gray, indeed
almost white hair, which, however, rose from his head in luxurious
fulness, gave to his pale countenance a peculiar expression that made
one feel uncomfortable. The brawny neck was almost bare; a simple,
carelessly-knotted black kerchief alone encircled it; thick,
silver-gray whiskers met together at his chin; a blue frock-coat,
pantaloons of the same colour, silk stockings, shoes with thick soles,
and a dazzlingly-white waistcoat and linen, completed his equipment. A
thick stick leant in one corner, and his broad-brimmed hat hung
against the wall. There was a certain convulsive twitching of the thin
lips of this person, which was very remarkable; and there seemed, when
he looked fixedly, to be a smouldering fire in his large, glassy,
grayish-blue eyes. He was, it was evident, a seaman like myself--a
strong oak that fate had shaped into a mast, over which many a storm
had blustered, but which had been too tough to be shivered, and still
defied the tempest and the lightning. There lay a gloomy resignation
as well as a wild fanaticism in those features. The large bony hand,
with its immense fingers, was spread out or clenched, according to the
turn which the conversation with the clergyman took. Suddenly he