Lampourde himself did not seem to be in the least disconcerted, and
after winking at his friend furtively in a very knowing way, stood
unabashed before the duke, with the bright light of the many wax candles
shining full upon his face. There was a red mark across his forehead,
where his hat had been pressed down over it, and great drops of sweat
stood on it, as if he had been running fast, or exercising violently.
His eyes, of a bluish gray tint, with a sort of metallic lustre in
them, were fixed upon those of the haughty young nobleman, with a calm
insolence that made Merindol's blood run cold in his veins; his large
nose, whose shadow covered all one side of his face, as the shadow of
Mount Etna covers a considerable portion of the island of Sicily, stood
out prominently, almost grotesquely, in profile; his mustache, with its
long stiff points carefully waxed, which produced exactly the effect of
an iron skewer stuck through his upper lip, and the "royal" on his chin
curled upward, like a comma turned the wrong way, all contributed to
make up a very extraordinary physiognomy, such as caricaturists dote on.
He wore a large scarlet cloak, wrapped closely about his erect, vigorous
form, and in one hand, which he extended towards the duke, he held
suspended a well filled purse--a strange and mysterious proceeding which
Mirindol could by no means understand.
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