"Show the gentleman in, and leave us. And if anybody should call while he is here, remember, Pomponne, that I am not at home to anyone."
"Yes, monsieur—as usual."
Pomponne went out, and in a moment the person who was waiting entered my bedroom.
Ballangier was thirty-four years old; he looked older, because he had led a riotous life for a long while. Dissipation and debauchery make a man old prematurely.
Imagine a man of more than ordinary height, who would have had a good figure if he had not acquired the habit of stooping. A refined, regular face, aquiline nose, small, heart-shaped mouth, and very black eyes surmounted by heavy eyebrows; an abundance of hair, once black, but now gray. All this would have formed an attractive whole, had it not been spoiled by a pronounced hangdog air. An expression that was impudent when not made stupid by drink, and manners that were often brutal; in addition, clothes that were always soiled and often in tatters, and the gait of a drummer; this rough sketch may serve to convey an impression of the person who stood before me.
On the present occasion he wore a brown frock-coat that was neither ripped nor torn. It lacked only two buttons in front, but it was covered with spots and stains. His black trousers were shockingly muddy, as were his boots. As for his linen, that was invisible. A frayed black stock encircled his neck, and he held in his hand a round black hat which seemed to have had many hard knocks.
When he entered my bedroom, Ballangier removed his pipe from his mouth. He walked forward, swaying his hips, nodded to me with a smile, and stretched himself out in an easy-chair, saying:
"Here I am! How goes it, Charles?"
"Very well, thanks."
"It seems that you had a bit of a spree last night, and you've had a good snooze this morning. You do right to enjoy yourself. It's such good fun to spree it! I'd like to do nothing else, myself."