But at the sight of Adrien he sat down again, and seemed for a while to be lost in thought. In a leisurely fashion he scanned the lad’s sallow, weary face, not without admiring its delicate oval outlines, one of the most noticeable characteristics of a noble head. The lad was the living image of his mother. He had her olive complexion, beautiful black eyes with a sad and thoughtful expression in them, long hair, a head too energetic for the fragile body; all the peculiar beauty of the Polish Jewess had been transmitted to her son.
“Do you sleep soundly, my little man?” Benassis asked him.
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me see your knees; turn back your trousers.”
Adrien reddened, unfastened his garters, and showed his knee to the doctor, who felt it carefully over.
“Good. Now speak; shout, shout as loud as you can.” Adrien obeyed.
“That will do. Now give me your hands.”
The lad held them out; white, soft, and blue-veined hands, like those of a woman.
“Where were you at school in Paris?”
“At Saint Louis.”