shirt-collar; a
well-worn hat pulled low over his eyes; and trousers of dark blue cloth,
worn very white and shiny at the knees, and strapped tightly down over a
pair of much-mended boots.

The more I looked at him, the less I was surprised that Flandrin should
have been struck by his appearance. There was an air of stern poverty
and iron resolution about the man that arrested one's attention at first
sight. The words "_ancien militaire"_ were written in every furrow of
his face; in every seam and on every button of his shabby clothing. That
he had seen service, missed promotion, suffered unmerited neglect (or,
it might be, merited disgrace), seemed also not unlikely.

Watching him as he sat, half turned away, half hidden by the newspaper
he was reading, one elbow resting on the table, one brown, sinewy hand
supporting his chin and partly concealing his mouth, I told myself that
here, at all events, was a man with a history--perhaps with a very dark
history. What were the secrets of his past? What had he done? What had
he endured? I would give much to know.

My coffee and cigar being brought, I asked for the _Figaro_, and holding
the paper somewhat between the stranger and myself, watched him with
increasing interest.

I now began to suspect that he was less interested in his own newspaper
than he appeared to be, and that his profound abstraction, like my own,
was assumed. An indefinable something in the turn of his head seemed to
tell me that his attention was divided between whatever might be going
forward in the room and what he was reading. I cannot describe what that
something was; but it gave me the impression that he was always
listening. When the outer door opened or shut, he stirred uneasily, and
once or twice looked sharply round to see what new-comer entered the
cafe. Was he anxiously expecting some one who did not come? Or was he
dreading the appearance of some one whom he wished to avoid? Might he
not be a political refugee? Might he not be a spy?

"There is nothing of interest in the papers to-day, Monsieur," said,
making another effort to force him into conversation.

He affected not to hear me.

I drew my chair a little nearer, and repeated the observation.

He frowned impatiently, and without looking up, replied:--

"_Eh, mon Dieu_, Monsieur!--when there is a dearth of news!"

"There need not, even so, be a dearth of wit. _Figaro_ is as heavy
to-day as a government leader in the _Moniteur_."