Madame Valade was looking heartily bored, he noted, as his searching eyes found out the couple. The report of his detention caused an immense sensation. His eyes were red. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. His head was small and bullet-shaped, and he did not wear a wig, but had his sleek black hair cut off closely round his temples. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. The young man opposite was straining his ears to listen to their conversation. ‘It is in no way your affair, monsieur, and you will unhand me at once.
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