"He must have a crow to pluck with you, Monsieur le Baron," replied
the man, "for his face is set at stormy."
Hulot turned pale, and said no more; he crossed the anteroom and
reception rooms, and, with a violently beating heart, found himself at
the door of the Prince's private study.
The chief, at this time seventy years old, with perfectly white hair,
and the tanned complexion of a soldier of that age, commanded
attention by a brow so vast that imagination saw in it a field of
battle. Under this dome, crowned with snow, sparkled a pair of eyes,
of the Napoleon blue, usually sad-looking and full of bitter thoughts
and regrets, their fire overshadowed by the penthouse of the strongly
projecting brow. This man, Bernadotte's rival, had hoped to find his
seat on a throne. But those eyes could flash formidable lightnings
when they expressed strong feelings.
Then, his voice, always somewhat hollow, rang with strident tones.
When he was angry, the Prince was a soldier once more; he spoke the
language of Lieutenant Cottin; he spared nothing--nobody. Hulot d'Ervy
found the old lion, his hair shaggy like a mane, standing by the
fireplace, his brows knit, his back against the mantel-shelf, and his
eyes apparently fixed on vacancy.
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