Such was M. Luc-Esprit Gillenormand, who had not lost his hair,—which
was gray rather than white,—and which was always dressed in “dog’s
ears.” To sum up, he was venerable in spite of all this.
He had something of the eighteenth century about him; frivolous and
great.
In 1814 and during the early years of the Restoration, M. Gillenormand,
who was still young,—he was only seventy-four,—lived in the Faubourg
Saint Germain, Rue Servandoni, near Saint-Sulpice. He had only retired
to the Marais when he quitted society, long after attaining the age of
eighty.
And, on abandoning society, he had immured himself in his habits. The
principal one, and that which was invariable, was to keep his door
absolutely closed during the day, and never to receive any one whatever
except in the evening. He dined at five o’clock, and after that his
door was open. That had been the fashion of his century, and he would
not swerve from it. “The day is vulgar,” said he, “and deserves only a
closed shutter. Fashionable people only light up their minds when the
zenith lights up its stars.” And he barricaded himself against every
one, even had it been the king himself. This was the antiquated
elegance of his day.