ending to his breast, with
shining eyes and nothing but rags to cover him. They did not recognize
him, but Louise Hauser exclaimed: "It is Ulrich, mother." And her mother
declared that it was Ulrich, although his hair was white.

He allowed them to go up to him, and to touch him, but he did not reply
to any of their questions, and they were obliged to take him to Loeche,
where the doctors found that he was mad, and nobody ever knew what had
become of his companion.

Little Louise Hauser nearly died that summer of decline, which the
medical men attributed to the cold air of the mountains.

UGLY

Certainly, at this blessed epoch of Equality of mediocrity, of
rectangular abomination, as Edgar Poe says, at this delightful period,
when everybody dreams of resembling everybody else, so that it has
become impossible to tell the President of the Republic from a waiter;
in these days, which are the forerunners of that promising, blissful
day, when everything in this world will be of a dully, neuter
uniformity, certainly at such an epoch, one has the right, or rather it
is one's duty, to be ugly.

He, however, assuredly, exercised that right with the most cruel vigor,
and he fulfilled that duty with the fiercest heroism, and to make
matters worse, the mysterious irony of fate had caused him to be born
with the name of Lebeau, while an ingenious godfather, the unconscious
accomplice of the pranks of destiny, had given him the Christian name of
Antinous.[19]

Even among our contemporaries, who were already on the high road to the
coming ideal of universal ugliness, Antinous Lebeau was remarkable for
his ugliness, and one might have said that he positively threw zeal, too
much zeal, into the matter, though he was not hideous like Mirabeau, who
made the people exclaim: "Oh! the beautiful monster!"

Alas! No. He was without any beauty, even without the beauty of
ugliness. He was ugly, that was all; nothing more nor less; in short, he
was uglily ugly. He was not humpbacked, nor knock-kneed, nor
pot-bellied; his legs were not like a pair of tongs, and his arms were
neither too long nor too short, and yet, there was an utter lack of
uniformity about him, not only in painters' eyes, but also in
everybody's, for nobody could meet him in the street without turning to
look after him, and thinking: "Good heavens! What an object."

His hair was of no particular color; a light chestnut, mixed with
yellow. There was not much of