Charles Grandet

His first appearance at his uncle’s house, whether it were in Saumur of at Froidfond, must be made in suitable style, so Charles had put on his choicest traveling outfit, the smartest one he had which had the elegance of simplicity, the most adorable, to use the current epithet for perfection in a man or thing. At Tours a hairdresser had been summoned to recurl his beautiful chestnut hair, and he had changed his linen and put on a black satin cravat and a round collar which framed his pale mocking face becomingly. A long overcoat, fitting tightly at the waist, was left half-unbuttoned to show a cashmere waistcoat with a roll collar, under which was a second, white, waistcoat. His watch was fastened to one of his buttonholes by a short gold chain, and negligently tucked into a pocket. His grey trousers were buttoned at the sides, and decorated at the seams with black silk embroidery. The freshness of his grey gloves had nothing to fear from contact with the gold-headed cane which he twirled with an easy grace. His traveling cap completed a picture in perfect taste. Only a Parisian, and a Parisian from the highest spheres, could fit himself up in this style, and not only avoid looking ridiculous, but even give to all his affectations an air of being modishly right, carrying them off with a gallant swagger, the dash of a young man who possesses a fine pair of pistols, skill in their use, and Annette.

It seemed to Eugenie, who had never seen such a paragon of beauty, so wonderfully dressed, that her cousin was a seraph come from heaven. She breathed the perfume of that shining head of hair, so gracefully curled, with delight. She would have liked to touch the satiny skin of those enchanting, fine, gloves. She envied Charles his small hands, his complexion, and the freshness and delicacy of his features.