Looking at those
hands attentively, one might have seen some recent marks attesting the
fact that the Baron had recently joined MADAME in La Vendee. To-day
that fact may be admitted. These hands were a living commentary on the
noble motto to which no Guenic had proved recreant: /Fac!/
His forehead attracted attention by the golden tones of the temples,
contrasting with the brown tints of the hard and narrow brow, which
the falling off of the hair had somewhat broadened, giving still more
majesty to that noble ruin. The countenance--a little material,
perhaps, but how could it be otherwise?--presented, like all the
Breton faces grouped about the baron, a certain savagery, a stolid
calm which resembled the impassibility of the Huguenots; something,
one might say, stupid, due perhaps to the utter repose which follows
extreme fatigue, in which the animal nature alone is visible. Thought
was rare. It seemed to be an effort; its seat was in the heart more
than in the head; it led to acts rather than ideas. But, examining
that grand old man with sustained observation, one could penetrate the
mystery of this strange contradiction to the spirit of the century.
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