know. I was a fine man, was n't I? Big and well made?"
"You are like that on the stage in that piece of Ennery's. But, as a matter of fact, you were, according to the poet Granval, a man who knew you well and chanted your glory—"
"My what?" cried Theophrastus.
"Your sanguinary glory—you were:
'Brown, dried-up, thin, and small, by courage great,
Reckless and brisk, robust, alert, adroit.'"
Theophrastus frowned as if he would have preferred a more romantic picture; then he said, "You have n't told me how you got hold of that portrait in the house in Guénégaud Street."
"It's a copy of a photograph by Nadar."
"But how on earth did Nadar take my photograph?" cried Theophrastus in extreme surprise.
"He took it from a wax mask which must have been very like you, since it was moulded from your face by the order of the Regent. Nadar photographed this mask on the 17th of January, 1859."
"And where is it to be found?" said Theophrastus eagerly.
"At the Château de Saint-Germain."
