Poiret's eyes were dim, his glance weak and lifeless, his skin discolored and wrinkled, gray in tone and speckled with bluish dots; his nose flat, his lips drawn inward to the mouth, where a few defective teeth still lingered.
His gray hair, flattened to the head by the pressure of his hat, gave him the look of an ecclesiastic,--a resemblance he would scarcely have liked, for he hated priests and clergy, though he could give no reasons for his anti-religious views.

This antipathy, however, did not prevent him from being extremely attached to whatever administration happened to be in power.

He never buttoned his old green coat, even on the coldest days, and he always wore shoes with ties, and black trousers.
No human life was ever lived so thoroughly by rule.

Poiret kept all his receipted bills, even the most trifling, and all his account-books, wrapped in old shirts and put away according to their respective years from the time of his entrance at the ministry.

Rough copies of his letters were dated and put away in a box, ticketed "My Correspondence." He dined at the same restaurant (the Sucking Calf in the place du Chatelet), and sat in the same place, which the waiters kept for him.