Sad and sorrowful faces are, of course, to be met with, since grief hasits portion everywhere; but that air of languid indifference, that look ofwearied endurance, which we characterize by the classic term of “boredom,” is, indeed, a rare spectacle in this capital; and yet now at the window ofa splendid apartment in the Place Vendôme, listlessly looking down intothe square beneath, stood a young man, every line of whose featuresconveyed this same expression. He had, although not really abovetwenty-four or twenty-five, the appearance of one ten years older. On aface of singular regularity, and decidedly handsome, dissipation had leftits indelible traces. The eyes were deep sunk, the cheeks colorless, andaround the angles of the mouth were those tell-tale circles which betraythe action of an oft-tried temper, and the spirit that has gone throughmany a hard conflict. In figure he was very tall, and seemed more so inthe folds of a long dressing-gown of antique brocade, which reached to hisfeet; a small, dark green skull-cap, with a heavy silver tassel, coveredone side of his head, and in his hand he held a handsome meerschaum,which, half mechanically, he placed from time to time to his lips,although its bowl was empty.