"But suppose he had lost it at play?"
"Then, madame, he would at least have had the pleasure of gambling."
"And do you think he has had no pleasure here? See! look at Madame
Firmiani."
The brightest memories of the old man faded at the sight of his
nephew's so-called mistress. His anger died away at the gracious
exclamation which came from his lips as he looked at her. By one of
those fortunate accidents which happen only to pretty women, it was a
moment when all her beauties shone with peculiar lustre, due perhaps
to the wax-lights, to the charming simplicity of her dress, to the
ineffable atmosphere of elegance that surrounded her. One must needs
have studied the transitions of an evening in a Parisian salon to
appreciate the imperceptible lights and shades which color a woman's
face and vary it. There comes a moment when, content with her toilet,
pleased with her own wit, delighted to be admired, and feeling herself
the queen of a salon full of remarkable men who smile to her, the
Parisian woman reaches a full consciousness of her grace and charm;
her beauty is enhanced by the looks she gathers in,--a mute homage
which she transfers with subtle glances to the man she loves. At
moments like these a woman is invested with supernatural power and
becomes a magician, a charmer, without herself knowing that she is
one; involuntarily she inspires the love that fills her own bosom; her
smiles and glances fascinate.
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