It rained without ceasing.

Durtal breakfasted under the assiduous watchfulness of his servant, Madame Mesurat.

She was one of those women whose stalwart build and masculine presence would allow of their dressing in men's clothes without attracting attention.

She had a pear-shaped head, cheeks that hung flabby as if they had been emptied of air, a pompous nose that drooped till it very nearly touched a projecting underlip like a bracket, giving her an expression of determined contempt which she very certainly had never felt.

In short, she suggested the absurd idea of a solemn, gawky Marlborough disguised as a cook.
She served unvarying meats with inglorious sauces; and as soon as the dish was on the table she stood at attention, waiting to know whether it was good.