He was large and at the same time pale, a thing which always displeases
me and which is, in fact, unpleasant; it impresses me as a sort of
diseased healthfulness. Moreover, he had the slow yet jerky way of
speaking that characterizes the pedant. Even his manner of walking,
which was not that of youth and health, repelled me; as for his glance,
it might be said that he had none. I do not know what to think of a man
whose eyes have nothing to say. These are the signs which led me to an
unfavorable opinion of Mercanson, an opinion which was unfortunately
correct.

He sat down on a bench and began to talk about Paris, which he called the
modern Babylon. He had been there, he knew every one; he knew Madame de
B------, who was an angel; he had preached sermons in her salon and was
listened to on bended knee. (The worst of this was that it was true.)
One of his friends, who had introduced him there, had been expelled from
school for having seduced a girl; a terrible thing to do, very sad.
He paid Madame Pierson a thousand compliments for her charitable deeds
throughout the country; he had heard of her benefactions, her care for
the sick, her vigils at the bed of suffering and of death. It was very
beautiful and noble; he would not fail to speak of it at St. Sulpice.
Did he not seem to say that he would not fail to speak of it to God?

Wearied by this harangue, in order to conceal my rising disgust, I sat
down on the grass and began to play with the goat. Mercanson turned on
me his dull and lifeless eye:

"The celebrated Vergniaud," said he, "was afflicted with the habit of
sitting on the ground and playing with animals."