In secret he was a grave, solitary man, caring for the present only
for the sake of the thousands dependent on him--living much with the
memory of the dear dead, and much with the hope of the future in his
son Pierre.
The Bourgeois was a man worth looking at and, at a glance, one to
trust to, whether you sought the strong hand to help, the wise head
to counsel, or the feeling heart to sympathize with you. He was
tall and strongly knit, with features of a high patrician cast, a
noble head, covered thick with grizzly hair--one of those heads so
tenacious of life that they never grow bald, but carry to the grave
the snows of a hundred years. His quick gray eyes caught your
meaning ere it was half spoken. A nose and chin, moulded with
beauty and precision, accentuated his handsome face. His lips were
grave even in their smile, for gaiety was rarely a guest in the
heart of the Bourgeois--a man keenly susceptible to kindness, but
strong in resentments and not to be placated without the fullest
atonement.
The Bourgeois sat by the table in his spacious, well-furnished
drawing-room, which overlooked the Rue Buade and gave him a glimpse
of the tall, new Cathedral and the trees and gardens of the
Seminary.
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