He was neither tall nor short, his manner was pleasant, his eyes gray and soft, his movements gentle, his whole appearance that of a good fellow, simple and kindly.
He called Pierre and Jean "my dear children," and had never seemed to prefer either, asking them both together to dine with him.

And then Pierre, with the pertinacity of a dog seeking a lost scent, tried to recall the words, gestures, tones, looks, of this man who had vanished from the world.

By degrees he saw him quite clearly in his rooms in the Rue Tronchet, where he received his brother and himself at dinner.
He was waited on by two maids, both old women who had been in the habit--a very old one, no doubt--of saying "Monsieur Pierre" and "Monsieur Jean." Marechal would hold out both hands, the right hand to one of the young men, the left to the other, as they happened to come in.
"How are you, my children ?" he would say.

"Have you any news of your parents?
As for me, they never write to me." The talk was quiet and intimate, of commonplace matters.

There was nothing remarkable in the man's mind, but much that was winning, charming, and gracious.