His gaze, wandering idly, as that of a man who is just
awake and collecting his ideas, fell on a door painted with flowers by
Jan, an artist disdainful of fame. The Baron did not indeed see twenty
thousand flaming eyes, like the man condemned to death; he saw but
one, of which the shaft was really more piercing than the thousands on
the Public Square.
Now this sensation, far rarer in the midst of enjoyment even than that
of a man condemned to death, was one for which many a splenetic
Englishman would certainly pay a high price. The Baron lay there,
horizontal still, and literally bathed in cold sweat. He tried to
doubt the fact; but this murderous eye had a voice. A sound of
whispering was heard through the door.
"So long as it is nobody but Crevel playing a trick on me!" said the
Baron to himself, only too certain of an intruder in the temple.
The door was opened. The Majesty of the French Law, which in all
documents follows next to the King, became visible in the person of a
worthy little police-officer supported by a tall Justice of the Peace,
both shown in by Monsieur Marneffe. The police functionary, rooted in
shoes of which the straps were tied together with flapping bows, ended
at top in a yellow skull almost bare of hair, and a face betraying him
as a wide-awake, cheerful, and cunning dog, from whom Paris life had
no secrets.
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