emembered voice of Georges
Marest calling out from the street: "Pierrotin, have you one seat left?"

"It seems to me you could say 'monsieur' without cracking your throat,"
replied the master of the line of coaches of the Valley of the Oise,
sharply.

Unless by the sound of the voice, Oscar could never have recognized the
individual whose jokes had been so fatal to him. Georges, almost bald,
retained only three or four tufts of hair above his ears; but these were
elaborately frizzed out to conceal, as best they could, the nakedness
of the skull. A fleshiness ill-placed, in other words, a pear-shaped
stomach, altered the once elegant proportions of the ex-young man. Now
almost ignoble in appearance and bearing, Georges exhibited the traces
of disasters in love and a life of debauchery in his blotched skin and
bloated, vinous features. The eyes had lost the brilliancy, the vivacity
of youth which chaste or studious habits have the virtue to retain.
Dressed like a man who is careless of his clothes, Georges wore a pair
of shabby trousers, with straps intended for varnished boots; but his
were of leather, thick-soled, ill-blacked, and of many months' wear. A
faded waistcoat, a cravat, pretentiously tied, although the material was
a worn-out foulard, bespoke the secret distress to which a former dandy
sometimes falls a prey. Moreover, Georges appeared at this hour of the
morning in an evening coat, instead of a surtout; a sure diagnostic of
actual poverty. This coat, which had seen long service at balls, had
now, like its master, passed from the opulent ease of former times to
daily work. The seams of the black cloth showed whitening lines; the
collar was greasy; long usage had frayed the edges of the sleeves into
fringes.

And yet, Georges ventured to attract attention by yellow kid gloves,
rather dirty, it is true, on the outside of which a signet ring
defined a large dark spot. Round his cravat, which was slipped into a
pretentious gold ring, was a chain of silk, representing hair, which,
no doubt, held a watch. His hat, though worn rather jauntily, revealed,
more than any of the above symptoms, the poverty of a man who was
totally unable to pay sixteen francs to a hat-maker, being forced to
live from hand to mouth. The former admirer of Florentine twirled a cane
with a chased gold knob, which was horribly battered. The blue trousers,
the waistcoat of a material called "Scotch stuff," a sky-blue cravat and
a pink-strip