When in the plenitude of his power, he commenced a terrible trade, till then unknown—namely, a traffic in human blood. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. Families had seen their lands seized, their chateaux ransacked or burned, and those unlucky enough to have failed to anticipate disaster, had been murdered or dragged away to gaol. The will to live had returned. A mutual recognition took place at the same instant between the stranger and this individual. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. He was in front of one of the more imposing of the cafés chantants—opposite, illuminated with a whole row of lights, was the wonderful poster which had helped to make ‘Alcide’ famous. It'll be in your way.
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