In height about five feet six inches, the young man was admirably well-proportioned,--neither too stout nor yet too thin.

His hands, carefully kept, were white and rather handsome; but his feet recalled the suburb and the foot-soldier of the Empire.

Max would certainly have made a good general of division; he had shoulders that were worth a fortune to a marshal of France, and a breast broad enough to wear all the orders of Europe.

Every movement betrayed intelligence; born with grace and charm, like nearly all the children of love, the noble blood of his real father came out in him.
"Don't you know, Max," cried the son of a former surgeon-major named Goddet--now the best doctor in the town--from the other end of the table, "that Madame Hochon's goddaughter is the sister of Rouget?
If she is coming here with her son, no doubt she means to make sure of getting the property when he dies, and then--good-by to your harvest!" Max frowned.

Then, with a look which ran from one face to another all round the table, he watched the effect of this announcement on the minds of those present, and again replied,-- "What's that to me ?" "But," said Francois, "I should think that if old Rouget revoked his will,--in case he has made one in favor of the Rabouilleuse--" Here Max cut short his henchman's speech.