His dress was amazingly neat, but showed constant brushing and signs of the friendly repairing needle.
The whole impression was that of a man whom a whiff of wind would blow away; with the body of an ascetic and the simplicity of a child.
The face had some particular sort of wisdom, difficult to define and impossible to imitate.

He held in his hand a tiny cane of the sort carried at the court of Louis Quinze.

Louis Capet himself had given it to him; and you might have had the life of the little gentleman, but not this cane with the tiny golden bust of his unhappy monarch.
He stood on the steps of the prison and looked serenely on the muttering, excited crowd.
"I fear there is a mistake," said he, coughing a little into his fingers.

"You do not seek me.

I--I have no claim upon your kindness; I am only the Chevalier Orvilliers du Champsavoys de Beaumanoir." For a moment the mob had been stayed in amazement by this small, rare creature stepping from the doorway, like a porcelain coloured figure from some dusky wood in a painting by Claude.