Upon this globe, which was painted on a large scale, a host of little red crosses appeared scattered over all parts of the world--from the North to the South, from the rising to the setting sun, from the most barbarous countries, from the most distant isles, to the centres of civilization, to France itself.

There was not a single country which did not present some spots marked with these red crosses, evidently indicative of stations, or serving as points of reference.
Before a table of black wood, loaded with papers, and resting against the wall near the chimney, a chair stood empty.

Further on, between the two windows, was a large walnut-wood desk, surmounted by shelves full of pasteboard boxes.
At the end of the month of October, 1831, about eight o'clock in the morning, a man sat writing at this desk.

This was M.Rodin, the correspondent of Morok, the brute-tamer.
About fifty years of age, he wore an old, shabby, olive greatcoat, with a greasy collar, a snuff-powdered cotton handkerchief for a cravat, and waistcoat and trousers of threadbare black cloth.

His feet, buried in loose varnished shoes, rested on a petty piece of green baize upon the red, polished floor.