Seated up on the bench as proudly as a queen upon her throne, with shining eyes, scornful lips, and arms tightly folded under her cashmere shawl, with that haughty gesture familiar to her, the young woman looked as invulnerable under this light wrap as if she had been covered with Ajax's shield, formed, if we can credit Homer, of seven bulls' hides and a sheet of brass.
After gazing at this scornful face for a moment, Gerfaut glanced at his coarse blouse, his leggings, and muddy boots.

His usual dainty ways made the details of this costume yet more shocking to him, and he exaggerated this little disaster.

He felt degraded and almost ridiculous.
The thought took away for a moment his presence of mind; he began mechanically to twirl his hat in his hands, exactly as if he had been Pere Rousselet himself.

But instead of being hurtful to him, this awkwardness served him better than the eloquence of Rousseau or the coolness of Richelieu.

Was it not a genuine triumph for Clemence to reduce a man of his recognized talent, who was usually anything but timid, to this state of embarrassment?
What witty response, what passionate speech could equal the flattery of this poet with bent head and this expression of deep sadness upon his face?
Madame de Bergenheim continued her raillery, but in a softer tone.
"This time, instead of staying in a cabin, the god of poetry has descended to a tavern.