Age, probably in consequence of
inordinate precautions, had left no mark upon his hands; and the
Maletroit hand was famous. It would be difficult to imagine
anything at once so fleshy and so delicate in design; the taper,
sensual fingers were like those of one of Leonardo's women; the
fork of the thumb made a dimpled protuberance when closed; the
nails were perfectly shaped, and of a dead, surprising whiteness.
It rendered his aspect tenfold more redoubtable, that a man with
hands like these should keep them devoutly folded in his lap like a
virgin martyr - that a man with so intense and startling an
expression of face should sit patiently on his seat and contemplate
people with an unwinking stare, like a god, or a god's statue. His
quiescence seemed ironical and treacherous, it fitted so poorly
with his looks.
Such was Alain, Sire de Maletroit.
Denis and he looked silently at each other for a second or two.
"Pray step in," said the Sire de Maletroit. "I have been expecting
you all the evening."
He had not risen, but he accompanied his words with a smile and a
slight but courteous inclination of the head. Partly from the
smile, partly from the strange musical murmur with which the Sire
prefaced his observation, Denis felt a strong shudder of disgust go
through his marrow. And what with disgust and honest confusion of
mind, he could scarcely get words together in reply.
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