The face of the Duc de Valentinois showed no sign of the livid blotches and hideous pustules which some historians describe, nor the squinting eyes, "gleaming with an infernal brilliancy which even his comrades and chosen intimates could not endure." Whether because the artist had flattered him, or because he had painted him at a period of his life when vice and crime did not as yet "stand out" on his face, he had not made him ugly. He had painted the cardinal brigand in profile, and that one of his eyes which he had copied was looking straight ahead. The face was pale, ghastly pale, and thin, the nose sharp and narrow, the mouth almost lipless, so pale and colorless were the lips, the chin angular, the outlines pure, the beard and moustache red and carefully combed, and the general effect distinguished. But seen thus in its most favorable aspect, that knavish face was perhaps more repulsive than if it had been eaten by leprosy. It was calm and thoughtful, and it bore no resemblance to the flat head of the viper. No, no, It was much worse; it was a well-shaped man's face, with all the intellectual faculties admirably developed for evil. The long, half-shut eye seemed absorbed in blissful meditation of a crime, and the imperceptible smile on the transparent lips had the drowsy mildness of sated ferocity. It was impossible to say definitely in what the horror of the expression consisted: it was everywhere. One felt chilled in body and mind as one questioned that cruel and insolent countenance.[7] "I dreamed it!" said Lauriane, scrutinizing the features one by one. "That is not the Spaniard's brow, nor his eye, nor his mouth. It is of no use for me to look, I can find nothing of him here." She closed her eyes to recall his features without looking at the portrait. She saw him full face: he was charming, with a proud and resigned expression of melancholy. She saw him in profile: he was playful, a little satirical perhaps, he smiled.--But as soon as she recalled that smile, she saw the profile of the infamous Cæsar, and it was impossible for her to separate the two impressions, as if they were glued together. She closed the cupboard, and glanced at the pulpit of carved wood, the little altar, and the black velvet cushion whitened and worn threadbare by Charlotte's knees. She fell on her knees upon it and prayed, not pausing to think whether she was in a church or a meeting-house, whether she was Catholic or Protestant. She prayed to the God of the weak and afflicted, the God of Charlotte d'Albret and Jeanne de France. Then, feeling somewhat reassured, and seeing that her guests' horses were ready, she went down to the salon to receive their adieux. She found her father greatly excited.