He was a well-made, shining, jaunty little Frenchman, who seemed to be perfectly at ease with himself and all the world.

He had the smallest little pair of moustaches imaginable, the smallest little imperial, the smallest possible pair of boots, and the smallest possible pair of gloves.

Nothing on earth could be nicer, or sweeter, or finer, than he was.

But he did not carry his finery like a hog in armour, as an Englishman so often does when an Englishman stoops to be fine.

It sat as naturally on Victoire as though he had been born in it.