Suddenly his face grew haggard and his head fell on the back of the chair, a shadow obscuring his Bourbonic countenance, so like that of his decapitated brother, though it lacked the placid benevolence of that unfortunate monarch's face encircled in curls which terminated in a cue. In the reigning Louis's face that benevolent look was replaced by an expression of sordid indifference or of caustic irony.
The king's collapse had been caused by the sight of a man standing in the garden opposite the window, near the statue: "A wrestler preparing for the Combat." The man's keen eye was fixed upon the monarch. He was of a weazened type and might be of any age between eighty and ninety, for there is a limit beyond which the passage of time is not apparent in the human form. His head shone like burnished silver, his bristly eye-brows surmounted prophetic eyes and his knotty hands, upon which his chin was leaning, rested on a rough staff. His garb was that of the provinces—where tradition and superstition held sway and druids still sharpened the ax beneath the trees—loose gaskins, wooden shoes, woolen scarf and embroidered jacket over a white vest. As a whole the attire was picturesque and the passers-by turned to gaze attentively at the old man, an ideal model for a painter wishing to personify the past.
The king, attracted by the strange figure, prolonged his stare, then suddenly turned his eyes upon the pompous usher and the Superintendent of Police, who advanced making a profound salutation.
After taking the seat designated by the monarch, Lecazes inquired solicitously:
"Does your Majesty improve in health?"
"The vulture does not tire of preying upon me. Believe me, Baron, the lives of all men make up equal totals. To reign, having disabled limbs, or to break stone, having nimble ones—'tis a balance. No, I am in error. To break stone, under such conditions, is preferable. After all, the breakers of stone can make love and be merry, while an invalid like me—Poor Zoe! poor Countess! 'Tis true that she and I adore genius and beauty. Who can deprive us of those joys?"
The baron's facial muscles assented.
"What of the English doctor?" he asked.
"Bah! the English doctor? Another instance of the Anglomania enslaving us! Have you ever witnessed inanity so grotesque as this servile imitation? And the claim that 'tis the English who have imparted to the world the ideas of cleanliness and hygiene! The reign of the water, indeed! Have we forgotten the ablutions of the Greeks and Romans, their cult of health, their purifying hot baths? And the fad of eating meat raw bloody! I tell you it was the eating of beefsteak that set my gout rampant. The only commendable thing about the English is that they kicked the Corsican off the throne. But what is the news, Monsieur Superintendent?"
"The news is good, your Majesty. We have succeeded in collecting the rest of the dispersed documents pertaining to the creole. All of these we have burned, in compliance with your Majesty's instructions. And a wise precaution it was, for they contained much that should be suppressed, such as letters from the Russian emperor and from Barras relating to the impostor—noxious papers, all of them."