Neither does the slight tinge of the
Gallic race detract from the attractions of a true, well-born Norman,
bred up in that province which is called the Court-end of France, and
polished in the capital. Your Norman is hardy, and fond of field-sports:
like the Englishman, he is usually fearless; generous, but, unlike the
English, somewhat crafty. You may know him by the fresh colour, the
peculiar blue eye, long and large; by his joyousness and look of health,
gathered up in his own marshy country, for the Norman is well fed, and
lives on the produce of rich pasture-land, with cheapness and plenty
around him. And St. Evremond was one of the handsomest specimens of this
fine locality (so mixed up as it is with _us_); and his blue eyes
sparkled with humour; his beautifully-turned mouth was all sweetness;
and his noble forehead, the whiteness of which was set off by thick dark
eyebrows, was expressive of his great intelligence, until a wen grew
between his eyebrows, and so changed all the expression of his face that
the Duchess of Mazarin used to call him the 'Old Satyr.' St. Evremond
was also Norman in other respects: he called himself a thorough Roman
Catholic, yet he despised the superstitions of his church, and prepared
himself for death without them.
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