There was an amplitude about his cravat, an air of extreme care about the dressing of his wig and the powdering of it, and a shining brightness about his buttons and the buckles of his shoes which seemed to proclaim the dandy, just as the sombreness of the colour chosen seemed to deny it.

In his singularly pale countenance a similar contradiction was observable.

The weak, kindly eyes almost appeared to give the lie to the astute prominence of his cheekbones; the sensitiveness of the mouth seemed neutralised by the thinness of the lips, whilst the oddly tip-tilted nose made a mock of the austerity of the brow.
He was perfectly at ease in his surroundings, and as La Boulaye was carried into the schoolmaster's study and laid on a couch, he came forward and peered curiously at the secretary's figure, voicing an inquiry concerning him.
"It is the young man of whom I was telling you, Maximilien," answered Duhamel.

"I give thanks to God that they have not killed him outright.
It is a mercy I had not expected from those wolves, and one which, on my soul, I cannot understand." "Monsieur," said Gilles, "will understand it better perhaps if I tell you that the Marquis believes him to be dead.

He was cut down for dead, and when we discovered that he still lived it was Mademoiselle who prevailed upon us to save him.