Paris had never had the chance to be a man because he'd been pampered his entire life. He'd been spoon fed by his parents, coddled by gods and goddesses to succeed, and in the end had been the scapegoat. He knew how to just be a weasel, and took no responsibility for his actions.
Oenone's hand became visible and he took it, his eyes that of a scared rabbit that had just had it's tail bit off by a wolf. She might not have an ounce of sympathy for him, but he would milk what little he could find. She offered her attention and that was enough for him as he got onto his wobbly feet.