Half a dozen gentlemen of her friends stood about her. Amongst these, I was not slow to recognise two or three. There was her brother, M. Victor Kint; there was another person, moustached and with long hair⁠—a calm, taciturn man, but whose traits bore a stamp and a semblance I could not mark unmoved. Amidst reserve and phlegm, amidst contrasts of character and of countenance, something there still was which recalled a face⁠—mobile, fervent, feeling⁠—a face changeable, now clouded, and now alight⁠—a face from my world taken away, for my eyes lost, but where my best spring-hours of life had alternated in shadow and in glow; that face, where I had often seen movements so near the signs of genius⁠—that why there did not shine fully out the undoubted fire, the thing, the spirit, and the secret itself⁠—I could never tell. Yes⁠—this Josef Emanuel⁠—this man of peace⁠—reminded me of his ardent brother.