A kinder, simpler, more empty-headed fellow does not exist.
He is forty-seven years old, and appears a young, good-looking man of sixty.

At the time of the Army of Occupation he really was as good-looking a man as any in the Dragoons.

He now uses all sorts of stratagems to cover the bald place on his head, by combing certain thin grey sidelocks over it.

He has, in revenge, a pair of enormous moustaches, which he dyes of the richest blue-black.

His nose is a good deal larger and redder than it used to be; his eyelids have grown flat and heavy; and a little pair of red, watery eyeballs float in the midst of them: it seems as if the light which was once in those sickly green pupils had extravasated into the white part of the eye.