as it will. His hair, getting between the collar of his coat and his
cravat, lies luxuriantly on his shoulders, and greases whatever spot
it touches. His wiry, bony hands ignore a nailbrush and the luxury of
lemon. Some of his cofeuilletonists declare that purifying waters
seldom touch their calcined skin.

In short, the terrible Raoul is grotesque. His movements are jerky, as
if produced by imperfect machinery; his gait rejects all idea of
order, and proceeds by spasmodic zig-zags and sudden stoppages, which
knock him violently against peaceable citizens on the streets and
boulevards of Paris. His conversation, full of caustic humor, of
bitter satire, follows the gait of his body; suddenly it abandons its
tone of vengeance and turns sweet, poetic, consoling, gentle, without
apparent reason; he falls into inexplicable silences, or turns
somersets of wit, which at times are somewhat wearying. In society, he
is boldly awkward, and exhibits a contempt for conventions and a
critical air about things respected which makes him unpleasant to
narrow minds, and also to those who strive to preserve the doctrines
of old-fashioned, gentlemanly politeness; but for all that there is a
sort of lawless originality about him which women do not dislike.
Besides, to them, he is often most amiably courteous; he seems to take
pleasure in making them forget his personal singularities, and thus
obtains a victory over antipathies which flatters either his vanity,
his self-love, or his pride.

"Why do you present yourself like that?" said the Marquise de
Vandenesse one day.

"Pearls live in oyster-shells," he answered, conceitedly.