At last the time arrived to serve the joint, and, amid a great banging of doors and clashing of plates, Monsieur de Bois-Doré appeared, preceded by a diminutive retainer richly costumed, whom under his breath he called his page, as if to justify this verse, which, however, had not yet appeared to bring ridicule upon his like: _Every marquis must have pages_, and in contravention of the royal ordinances, which allowed pages only to princes and to the very greatest noblemen. Despite his habitual dejection and his present discomfort, D'Alvimar had difficulty in restraining his laughter at the appearance of his _fiduciary_ host. Monsieur Sylvain de Bois-Doré had been one of the handsome men of his time. Tall, well-made, black hair, white skin, magnificent eyes, fine features, physically strong and active, he had won the favor of many ladies, but had never inspired a violent or lasting passion. It was the fault of his own fickleness and of the sparing use he made of his own emotions. Boundless charity, a loyalty that was most remarkable when we consider the time and his environment, princely lavishness when fortune chanced to smile upon him, a stoical philosophy in his hours of ill-luck, with all the amiable and free-and-easy qualities of the adventurous champions of the Béarnais, did not suffice to make an impassioned hero of the type that was popular in his youthful days. It was an epoch of excitement and bloodshed, when love-making needed a little ferocity in order to become romantic attachment; and Bois-Doré, apart from actual battle, wherein he bore himself valiantly, was disgustingly kind and gentle. He had never murdered a husband or brother; he had poniarded no rival in the arms of an unfaithful mistress; Javotte or Nanette readily consoled him for the treachery of Diane or Blanche. And so, notwithstanding his taste for romances of pastoral life and of chivalry, he was considered to have a paltry mind and a lukewarm heart. He was the more readily reconciled to being tricked and cozened by the ladies, in that he had never noticed it. He knew that he was handsome, generous and brave; his adventures were brief but numerous; his heart craved friendship rather than wild passion; and by his discretion and his gentle manners he had earned the privilege of remaining everybody's friend. He had been quite happy, therefore, without exerting himself to be adored, and, to speak frankly, he had loved all the ladies more or less without adoring any one of them. He might have been accused of egotism, had it been possible to reconcile such an accusation with the other one freely brought against him, of being too kind and too humane. He was in some measure a caricature of the good Henri, whom many called an ingrate and a traitor, but whom one and all loved none the less after they had come in contact with him.