lips, showing under a white mustache, were livid and fallen inward.
The large Alexandrian nose had lost its military angle, and drooped
slightly at the tip: which is to say, the marquis no longer acted, he
thought; he was no longer the soldier, but the philosopher. The
domineering, forceful chin had the essentials of a man of justice, but
it was lacking in that quality of mercy which makes justice grand.
Over the Henri IV ruff fell the loose flesh of his jaws. Altogether,
it was the face of a man who was practically if not actually dead. But
in the eyes, there lay the life of the man. From under jutting brows
they peered as witnesses of a brain which had accumulated a rare
knowledge of mankind, man's shallowness, servility, hypocrisy, his
natural inability to obey the simplest laws of nature; a brain which
was set in motion always by calculation, never by impulse. They were
grey eyes, bold and fierce and liquid as a lion's. None among the
great had ever beaten them down, for they were truthful eyes, almost an
absolute denial of the life he had lived. But truth to the marquis was
not a moral obligation. He was truthful as became a great noble who
was too proud and fearless of consequences to lie. In his youth he had
been called Antinous to Henri's Caesar; but there is a certain type of
beauty which, if preyed upon by vices, becomes sardonic in old age.

At his elbow stood a small Turkish table on which were a Venetian bell
and a light repast, consisting of a glass of weakened canary and a
plate of biscuits spread sparingly with honey. Presently the marquis
drank the wine and struck the bell. Jehan, the marquis's aged valet,
entered soon after with a large candelabrum of wax candles. This he
placed on the mantel. Even with this additional light, the other end
of the salon remained in semi-darkness. Only the dim outline of the
grand staircase could be seen.

Over the mantel the portrait of a woman stood out clearly and
definitely. It represented Madame la Marquise at twenty-two, when
Marie de Medicis had commanded the young Rubens to paint the portrait
of one of the few women who had volunteered to share her exile. Madame
lived to be only twenty-four, happily.

"Jehan, light the chandelier," said the marquis. His voice, if high,
was still clear and strong. "Has Monsieur le Comte ventured forth in
this storm?"

"Yes, Monsieur; but he left word that he would return later with a
company of friends."