Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II. Lever Charles James

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СКАЧАТЬ and blaze of diamonds concealed any ravages time might have made upon her beauty.

      She was conversing with the Arch-Chancellor, Cambacérès, when my name was announced; and turning rapidly round, touched my arm with her bouquet, as she said, with a most gracious smile, —

      “I am but too much flattered to see you on so short an invitation; but M. de Tascher’s note led me to hope I might presume so far. Your friend, I believe?”

      “I have taken the great liberty – ”

      “Indeed, Madame la Comtesse,” said Duchesne, interrupting, “I must exculpate my friend here. This intrusion rests on my own head, and has no other apology than my long cherished wish to pay my homage to the most distinguished ornament of the Parisian world.”

      As he spoke, the quiet flow of his words, and the low deferential bow with which he accompanied them, completely divested his speech of its tone of gross flattery, and merely made it seem a very fitting and appropriate expression.

      “This would be a very high compliment, indeed,” replied Madame de Lacostellerie, with a flush of evident pleasure on her cheek, “had it even come from one less known than the Chevalier Duchesne. I hope the Duchesse de Montserrat is well, – your aunt, if I mistake not?” “Yes, Madame,” said he, “in excellent health; it will afford her great pleasure when I inform her of your polite inquiry.”

      Another announcement now compelled us to follow the current in front, which I was well content to do, and escape from an interchange of fine speeches, of whose sincerity, on one side at least, I had very strong misgivings.

      “So, then, the comtesse is acquainted with your family?” said I, in a whisper.

      “Who said so?” replied he, laughing.

      “Did she not ask after the Duchesse de Montserrat?”

      “And then?”

      “And didn’t you promise to convey her very kind message?”

      “To be sure I did. But are you simple enough to think that either of us were serious in what we said? Why, my dear friend, she never saw my aunt in her life; nor, if I were to hint at her inquiry for her to the duchesse, am I certain it would not cost me something like a half million of francs the old lady has left me in her will, – on my word, I firmly believe she’d never forgive it. You know little what these people of the vieille roche, as they call themselves, are like. Do you see that handsome fellow yonder, with a star on a blue cordon?”

      “I don’t know him; but I see he’s a Marshal of France.”

      “Well, I saw that same aunt of mine rise up and leave the room because he sat down in her presence!”

      “Oh! that was intolerable.”

      “So she deemed his insolence. Come, move on; they ‘re dancing in the next salon.” And without saying more, we pushed through the crowd in the direction of the music.

      It is only by referring to the sensations experienced by those who see a ballet at the Opera for the first time that I can at all convey my own on entering the salle de danse. My first feeling was that of absolute shame. Never before had I seen that affectation of stage costume which then was the rage in society. The short and floating jupe – formed of some light and gauzy texture, which, even where it covered the figure, betrayed the form and proportions of the wearer – was worn low on the bosom and shoulders, and attached at the waist by a ribbon, whose knot hung negligently down in seeming disorder. The hair fell in long and floating masses loose upon the neck, waving in free tresses with every motion of the figure, and adding to that air of abandon which seemed so studiously aimed at. But more than anything in mere costume was the look and expression, in which a character of languid voluptuousness was written, and made to harmonize with the easy grace of floating movements, and sympathize with gestures full of passionate fascination.

      “Now, Burke,” said Duchesne, as he threw his eyes over the room, “shall I find a partner for you? for I believe I know most of the people here. That pretty blonde yonder, with the diamond buckles in her shoes, is Mademoiselle de Rancy, with a dowry of some millions of francs; what say you to pushing your fortune there? Don’t forget the officier d’élite is a trump card just now; and there’s no time to lose, for there will soon be a new deal.”

      “Not if she had the throne of France in reversion,” said I; turning away in disgust from a figure which, though perfectly beautiful, outraged at every movement that greatest charm of womanhood, – her inborn modesty.

      “Ah, then, you don’t fancy a blonde!” said he, carelessly, whether wilfully misunderstanding me or not I could not say. “Nor I either,” added he. “There, now, is something far more to my taste; is she not a lovely girl?”

      She to whom he now directed my attention was standing at the side of the room, and leaning on her partner’s arm; her head slightly turned, so that we could not see her features, but her figure was actually faultless. Hers was not one of those gossamer shapes which flitted around and about us, balancing on tiptoe, or gracefully floating with extending arms. Rather strongly built than otherwise, she stood with the firm foot and the straight ankle of a marble statue; her arms, well rounded, hung easily from her full, wide shoulders; while her head, slightly thrown back, was balanced on her neck with an air at once dignified and easy. Her dress well suited the character of her figure: it was entirely of black, covered with a profusion of deep lace, – the jupe looped up in Andalusian fashion to display the leg, whose symmetry was perfect. Even her costume, however, had something about it too theatrical for my taste; but there was a stamp of firmness, fierté even, in her carriage and her attitude, that at once showed hers was no vulgar desire of being remarkable, but the womanly consciousness of being dressed as became her. She suddenly turned her head around, and we both exclaimed in the same breath, “How lovely!” Her features were of that brilliant character only seen in Southern blood: eyes large, black, and lustrous, fringed with lashes that threw their shadow on the very cheek; full lips, curled with an air of almost saucy expression; while the rich olive tint of her transparent skin was scarce colored with the pink flush of exercise, and harmonized perfectly with the proud repose of her countenance.

      “She must be Spanish, – that’s certain,” said Duchesne. “No one ever saw such an instep come from this side the Pyrenees; and those eyes have got their look of sleepy wickedness from Moorish blood. But here comes one will tell us all about her.”

      This was the Baron de Trève, – a withered-looking, dried-up old man, rouged to the eyes, and dressed in the extravagance of the last fashion; the high collar of his coat rising nearly to the back of his head, as his deep cravat in front entirely concealed his mouth, and formed a kind of barrier around his features.

      As Duchesne addressed him, he stopped short, and assuming an attitude of great intended grace, raised his glass slowly to his eye, and looked towards the lady.

      “Ah! the señorina. Don’t you know her? Why, where have you been, my dear chevalier? Oh! I forgot. You’ve been in Austria, or Russia, or some barbarous place or other. She is the belle, par excellence; nothing else is talked of in Paris.”

      “But her name? Who is she?” said Duchesne, impatiently.

      “Mademoiselle de Lacostellerie, the daughter of the house,” said the baron, completely overcome with astonishment at our ignorance. “And you not to know this! – you, of all men living! Why,” he continued, dropping his voice to a lower key, “there never was such a fortune. Mines of rubies and emeralds; continents of coffee, rice, and sandal-wood; spice islands and sugar plantations, to make СКАЧАТЬ