And when the Republic at last had come, that Republic which had cost him so many years of gaol, it had, in its own turn, imprisoned him, adding fresh years of gloom to those which already had lacked sunlight.

And thus he remained the martyr of freedom: freedom which he still desired in spite of everything; freedom, which, strive as he might, never came, never existed.
"But you are mistaken," replied Guillaume, wounded by Janzen's raillery.
"There is again a thought of getting rid of Barthes, whose uncompromising rectitude disturbs our politicians; and he does well to take his precautions!" Nicholas Barthes came in, a tall, slim, withered old man, with a nose like an eagle's beak, and eyes that still burned in their deep sockets, under white and bushy brows.

His mouth, toothless but still refined, was lost to sight between his moustaches and snowy beard; and his hair, crowning him whitely like an aureola, fell in curls over his shoulders.
Behind him with all modesty came Theophile Morin, with grey whiskers, grey, brush-like hair, spectacles, and yellow, weary mien--that of an old professor exhausted by years of teaching.

Neither of them seemed astonished or awaited an explanation on finding that man in bed with an injured wrist.

And there were no introductions: those who were acquainted merely smiled at one another.
Barthes, for his part, stooped and kissed Guillaume on both cheeks.