this man, but terrible and apoplectic when he gave vent to it. Although violent and incapable of reflection, this man had done nothing to justify the sinister prophecies of his physiognomy. His postilions would say to those who quaked before the giant:
“Oh! he is not bad!”
The master of Nemours, to use an abbreviation employed in many countries, wore a bottle-green velvet shooting-jacket, green drill trousers with green stripes, an ample yellow mohair waistcoat, in the pocket of which could be seen a monstrous snuffbox outlined by a black circle. A big snuff-box for a snub nose, is a law almost without exception.
Minoret-Levrault, offspring of the Revolution and spectator of the Empire, had never mixed himself up with politics; as for his religious opinions, he had never set foot inside a church except to be married; as for his principles in private life, they existed in the Civil Code; all that was not forbidden or unattainable by the law he believed to be feasible. He had never read anything but the newspaper of the department of Seine-et-Oise, or a few instructions referring to his profession. He was considered to be a skilful farmer; but his knowledge was purely practical. Thus, with Minoret-Levrault, the mind did not belie the body. It was seldom, too, that he talked; and, before beginning to speak, he always took a pinch of snuff to give himself time to seek, not ideas, but words. As a talker, he would have struck one as a failure.
