He was a man of little, if anything, over thirty,
with small bright eyes buried in an enormous face. His cheek-bones
were prominent, his nose awry, as if it had been broken by a blow,
and his mouth was rendered almost shapeless by the scars of another
injury. (A bull had horned him in the face when he was but a lad.)
As if that were not enough to render his appearance terrible, his
cheeks were deeply pock-marked. He was dressed untidily in a long
scarlet coat that descended almost to his ankles, soiled buckskin
breeches and boots with reversed tops. His shirt, none too clean,
was open at the throat, the collar hanging limply over an unknotted
cravat, displaying fully the muscular neck that rose like a pillar
from his massive shoulders. He swung a cane that was almost a club
in his left hand, and there was a cockade in his biscuit-coloured,
conical hat. He carried himself with an aggressive, masterful air,
that great head of his thrown back as if he were eternally at
defiance.
Le Chapelier, whose manner was very grave, named him to Andre-Louis.
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