"What a wonderful bit of painting!" he said to himself. The stranger's
hair and eyebrows and a Mazarin tuft on the chin had been dyed black,
but the result was a spurious, glossy, purple tint that varied its
hues according to the light; the hair had been too white, no doubt, to
take the preparation. Anxiety and cunning were depicted in the narrow,
insignificant face, with its wrinkles incrusted by thick layers of red
and white paint. This red enamel, lacking on some portions of his
face, strongly brought out his natural feebleness and livid hues. It
was impossible not to smile at this visage with the protuberant
forehead and pointed chin, a face not unlike those grotesque wooden
figures that German herdsmen carve in their spare moments.
An attentive observer looking from Raphael to this elderly Adonis
would have remarked a young man's eyes set in a mask of age, in the
case of the Marquis, and in the other case the dim eyes of age peering
forth from behind a mask of youth. Valentin tried to recollect when
and where he had seen this little old man before. He was thin,
fastidiously cravatted, booted and spurred like one-and-twenty; he
crossed his arms and clinked his spurs as if he possessed all the
wanton energy of youth.
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