And Madame Martin enjoyed his affable phrases, heavy and rusty like the iron-work of brica-brac shops, among which fell dried leaves of anthology.

M.Schmoll liked poets and women, and had wit.
Madame Marmet feigned not to know him, and went out without returning his bow.
When he had exhausted his pretty madrigals, M.Schmoll became sombre and pitiful.

He complained piteously.

He was not decorated enough, not provided with sinecures enough, nor well fed enough by the State--he, Madame Schmoll, and their five daughters.

His lamentations had some grandeur.