NO; HE IS HAVING DIFFICULTY with his butterfly tie.
And suddenly Adrien seems to remember what it is that he is supposed to do. His eyes brighten; he steps forward with courage; he lifts his arm and—like that—it falls away from him, his clumsiness and coarseness and bewilderment, it all falls away, like the sleeve of a dressing gown as a young woman raises her hand to brush her hair, exposing the whiteness of her forearm, her elbow—like that, his purpose is revealed, that beautifully. He must fix the flatulent man's tie. And his face no longer resembles that of the sleepwalker, or the opium eater; his face is that of a man who must tilt M. Pujol's chin, with all the tenderness in the world, and arrange the wing-like folds of his white evening tie.