His face was furrowed like a frosty road.

Veins sprawled over his hands which rested on the arms of his chair, and the knuckles shone like ivory through the drawn transparent skin.

The long fingers drummed ceaselessly and the head teetered; for thus senility approaches.

His lips, showing under a white mustache, were livid and fallen inward.
The large Alexandrian nose had lost its military angle, and drooped slightly at the tip: which is to say, the marquis no longer acted, he thought; he was no longer the soldier, but the philosopher.

The domineering, forceful chin had the essentials of a man of justice, but it was lacking in that quality of mercy which makes justice grand.
Over the Henri IV ruff fell the loose flesh of his jaws.