He was well-figured,
with a hand of peculiar whiteness, suggesting in its breadth more the man
of action than of meditation. But it was a contradiction; for, as you saw
it rise and fall, you were struck by its dramatic delicacy; as it rested
on the railing of the veranda, by its latent power. You faced incongruity
everywhere. His dress was bizarre, his face almost classical, the brow
clear and strong, the profile good to the mouth, where there showed a
combination of sensuousness and adventure. Yet in the face there was an
illusive sadness, strangely out of keeping with the long linen coat,
frilled shirt, flowered waistcoat, lavender trousers, boots of enamelled
leather, and straw hat with white linen streamers. It was a whimsical
picture.
At the moment that the Cure and Medallion the auctioneer came down the
street together towards the Louis Quinze, talking amiably, this singular
gentleman was throwing out hot pennies, with a large spoon, from a tray
in his hand, calling on the children to gather them, in French which was
not the French of Pontiac--or Quebec; and this refined accent the Cure
was quick to detect, as Monsieur Garon the avocat, standing on the
outskirts of the crowd, had done, some moments before.
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