the sale of his house and stock, and at length to live
happily like a retired citizen.
Cropole was anxious for gain, and was half-crazy with joy at
the news of the arrival of Louis XIV.
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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later
Himself, his wife, Pittrino, and two cooks, immediately laid
hands upon all the inhabitants of the dove-cote, the
poultry-yard, and the rabbit-hutches; so that as many
lamentations and cries resounded in the yards of the
hostelry of the Medici as were formerly heard in Rama.
Cropole had, at the time, but one single traveler in his
house.
This was a man of scarcely thirty years of age, handsome,
tall, austere, or rather melancholy, in all his gestures and
looks.
He was dressed in black velvet with jet trimmings; a white
collar, as plain as that of the severest Puritan, set off
the whiteness of his youthful neck; a small dark-colored
mustache scarcely covered his curled, disdainful lip.
He spoke to people looking them full in the face without
affectation, it is true, but without scruple; so that the
brilliancy of his black eyes became so insupportable, that
more than one look had sunk beneath his like the weaker
sword in a single combat.
At this time, in which men, all created equal by God, were
divided, thanks to prejudices, into two distinct castes, the
gentleman and the commoner, as they are really divided into
two races, the black and the white, — at this time, we say,
he whose portrait we have just sketched could not fail of
being taken for a gentleman, and of the best class. To
ascertain this, there was no necessity to consult anything
but his hands, long, slender, and white, of which every
muscle, every vein, became apparent through the skin at the
least movement, and eloquently spoke of good descent.
This gentleman, then, had arrived alone at Cropole’s house.
He had taken, without hesitation, without reflection even,
the principal apartment which the hotelier had pointed out
to him with a rapacious aim, very praiseworthy, some will
say, very reprehensible will say others, if they admit that
Cropole was a physiognomist and judged people at first
sight.
This apartment was that which composed the whole front of
the ancient triangular house, a large salon, lighted by two
windows on the first stage, a small chamber by the side of
it, and another above it.
Now, from the time he had arrived, this gentleman had
scarcely touched any repast that had been served up to him
in his chamber. He had spoken but two words to the host, to
warn him that a traveler of the name of Parry would arrive,
and to desire that, when he did, he should be shown up to
him immediately.
He afterwards preserved so profound a silence, that Cropole
was almost offended, so much did he prefer people who were
good company.
This gentleman had risen early the morning of the day on
which this history begins, and had placed himself at the
window of his salon, seated upon the ledge, and leaning upon
the rail of the balcony, gazing sadly but persistently on
both sides of the street, watching, no doubt, for the
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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later
arrival of the traveler he had mentioned to the host.
In this way he had seen the little cortege of Monsieur
return from hunting, then had again partaken of the profound
tranquillity of the street, absorbed in his own
expectations.
All at once the movement of the crowd going to the meadows,
couriers setting out, washers of pavement, purveyors of the
royal household, gabbling, scampering shopboys, chariots in
motion, hair-dressers on the run, and pages toiling along,
this tumult and bustle had surprised him, but without losing
any of that impassible and supreme majesty which gives to
the eagle and the lion that serene and contemptuous glance
amidst the hurrahs and shouts of hunters or the curious.
Soon the cries of the victims slaughtered in the
poultry-yard, the hasty steps of Madame Cropole up that
little wooden staircase, so narrow and so echoing, the
bounding pace of Pittrino, who only that morning was smoking
at the door with all the phlegm of a Dutchman; all this