the staircase, and then found himself face to face with the intruder. 'What!' he exclaimed, an expression which admirably sums up his feeling: indignation at being treated with disrespect. The intruder must have been a novice; or else the descendant of the Crusaders, who in the day-time was a frightening enough spectacle, must by night, and with a knife in his hand, have looked like the wild man of Borneo. The visitor turned tail and rushed down the stairs. Thus it can be seen that M. Élie, who in the course of this narrative will be seen to be shy, pusillanimous, and on more than one occasion a moral coward, was physically brave. And he added to the merit of his conduct by not mentioning it to Léon. But he thought about it none the less, and privately gloated over it, as though it had been a real 'judgement from heaven' proving quite clearly what history had of course proved already but which there was no harm in proving yet again in everyday practice: that compared to the Coëtquidans the Coantrés were nothing but sheep's droppings.
3
B ARON O CTAVE DE C OËTQUIDAN , after lunching alone (his sister, who lived with him, had lunched out), was sitting in a rocking-chair reading the Daily Mail. 'Reading' is a euphemism, since he knew no English — no, let us be fair, he knew a few words. But the baron maintained that one cannot know anything about French politics without reading the British or American Press. He had a cup of coffee beside him, but he did not smoke.
He was a tall, clean-shaven man, with white hair cut short, as spruce in his attire as his brother was not. However, if we have noted at the beginning of this book that M. Élie was dressed 'like nobody else', it must be said that the baron also — in his case in an aristocratic way — wore an unusual get-up alike for his age, for his position and for the season. In this month of February in Paris, conventionally the season for dark clothes, he was wearing a light grey suit with turn-ups on the trousers and shoulders cut in the American style (which was then a rarity, for the fashion did not catch on until two or three years later). A soft white collar, a white linen bow tie knotted with studied negligence, beautiful brown laced ankle-boots (made to measure, costing three hundred francs, and lovingly boned until they had acquired that genuine [ In English in the original. ] chestnut glow), white woollen socks like his brother (those delicate Coëtquidan feet!), no ring, no watch-chain, no cuff-links (his shirt was a soft one with mother-of-pearl buttons). On his lapel the rosette of the Legion of Honour, in the smallest available model, which had none the less provoked a memorable scene when the baron had bought it after his promotion, protesting against its 'repulsive size' and pretending he wanted one specially made for him that was invisible to the naked eye. For M. Octave had always made a point of refusing to be satisfied with 'standard models', and would order, to his own specifications, such things as a shooting jacket in bishop's purple or a beach jacket with gilt buttons, or else a waste-paper basket made of wire-netting but 'of a size that only existed in wicker on the market' or an absolutely sensational trouser-press, of a type abandoned in 1840 though it was the only effective one, or a mysterious looking suitcase designed for luggage-racks which was supposed to have a capacity well above that of the largest suitcase normally allowed in a luggage-rack. All these objects, either because they proved useless or because the baron soon realized that they made him look ridiculous, ended up with the valet or the chauffeur after being used two or three times, and thus allowed their owner to kill two birds with one stone by giving proof, with a mere jacket in bishop's purple, at once of his munificence and the singularity of his soul.
Anyone who saw Baron Octave, member of the board of Latty's Bank and Officer of the Legion of Honour, dressed in
3
B ARON O CTAVE DE C OËTQUIDAN , after lunching alone (his sister, who lived with him, had lunched out), was sitting in a rocking-chair reading the Daily Mail. 'Reading' is a euphemism, since he knew no English — no, let us be fair, he knew a few words. But the baron maintained that one cannot know anything about French politics without reading the British or American Press. He had a cup of coffee beside him, but he did not smoke.
He was a tall, clean-shaven man, with white hair cut short, as spruce in his attire as his brother was not. However, if we have noted at the beginning of this book that M. Élie was dressed 'like nobody else', it must be said that the baron also — in his case in an aristocratic way — wore an unusual get-up alike for his age, for his position and for the season. In this month of February in Paris, conventionally the season for dark clothes, he was wearing a light grey suit with turn-ups on the trousers and shoulders cut in the American style (which was then a rarity, for the fashion did not catch on until two or three years later). A soft white collar, a white linen bow tie knotted with studied negligence, beautiful brown laced ankle-boots (made to measure, costing three hundred francs, and lovingly boned until they had acquired that genuine [ In English in the original. ] chestnut glow), white woollen socks like his brother (those delicate Coëtquidan feet!), no ring, no watch-chain, no cuff-links (his shirt was a soft one with mother-of-pearl buttons). On his lapel the rosette of the Legion of Honour, in the smallest available model, which had none the less provoked a memorable scene when the baron had bought it after his promotion, protesting against its 'repulsive size' and pretending he wanted one specially made for him that was invisible to the naked eye. For M. Octave had always made a point of refusing to be satisfied with 'standard models', and would order, to his own specifications, such things as a shooting jacket in bishop's purple or a beach jacket with gilt buttons, or else a waste-paper basket made of wire-netting but 'of a size that only existed in wicker on the market' or an absolutely sensational trouser-press, of a type abandoned in 1840 though it was the only effective one, or a mysterious looking suitcase designed for luggage-racks which was supposed to have a capacity well above that of the largest suitcase normally allowed in a luggage-rack. All these objects, either because they proved useless or because the baron soon realized that they made him look ridiculous, ended up with the valet or the chauffeur after being used two or three times, and thus allowed their owner to kill two birds with one stone by giving proof, with a mere jacket in bishop's purple, at once of his munificence and the singularity of his soul.
Anyone who saw Baron Octave, member of the board of Latty's Bank and Officer of the Legion of Honour, dressed in
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