It would need the pencil of an Ingres to render the pride
of that brow, with its wealth of hair, the dignity of that glance, and
the thoughts betrayed by the changing colors of her cheeks. In her
were all things; poets could have found an Agnes Sorel and a Joan of
Arc, also the woman unknown, the Soul within that form, the soul of
Eve, the knowledge of the treasures of good and the riches of evil,
error and resignation, crime and devotion, the Donna Julia and the
Haidee of Lord Byron.
The former guardsman stayed, with apparent impertinence, after the
other guests had left the salons; and Madame Firmiani found him
sitting quietly before her in an armchair, evidently determined to
remain, with the pertinacity of a fly which we are forced to kill to
get rid of it. The hands of the clock marked two in the morning.
"Madame," said the old gentlemen, as Madame Firmiani rose, hoping to
make him understand that it was her good pleasure he should go,
"Madame, I am the uncle of Monsieur Octave de Camps."
Madame Firmiani immediately sat down again, and showed her emotion. In
spite of his sagacity the old Planter was unable to decide whether she
turned pale from shame or pleasure. There are pleasures, delicious
emotions the chaste heart seeks to veil, which cannot escape the shock
of startled modesty. The more delicacy a woman has, the more she seeks
to hide the joys that are in her soul.
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