Domestic Peace | Page 5

to that
lady, whom I never saw till now, have the charity to tell me if you have
seen her dance."
"Why, my dear Martial, where have you dropped from? If you are ever
sent with an embassy, I have small hopes of your success. Do not you
see a triple rank of the most undaunted coquettes of Paris between her
and the swarm of dancing men that buzz under the chandelier? And
was it not only by the help of your eyeglass that you were able to
discover her at all in the corner by that pillar, where she seems buried
in the gloom, in spite of the candles blazing above her head? Between
her and us there is such a sparkle of diamonds and glances, so many
floating plumes, such a flutter of lace, of flowers and curls, that it
would be a real miracle if any dancer could detect her among those
stars. Why, Martial, how is it that you have not understood her to be the
wife of some sous-prefet from Lippe or Dyle, who has come to try to
get her husband promoted?"
"Oh, he will be!" exclaimed the Master of Appeals quickly.
"I doubt it," replied the Colonel of Cuirassiers, laughing. "She seems as
raw in intrigue as you are in diplomacy. I dare bet, Martial, that you do
not know how she got into that place."
The lawyer looked at the Colonel of Cuirassiers with an expression as
much of contempt as of curiosity.
"Well," proceeded Montcornet, "she arrived, I have no doubt,
punctually at nine, the first of the company perhaps, and probably she
greatly embarrassed the Comtesse de Gondreville, who cannot put two
ideas together. Repulsed by the mistress of the house, routed from chair

to chair by each newcomer, and driven into the darkness of this little
corner, she allowed herself to be walled in, the victim of the jealousy of
the other ladies, who would gladly have buried that dangerous beauty.
She had, of course, no friend to encourage her to maintain the place she
first held in the front rank; then each of those treacherous fair ones
would have enjoined on the men of her circle on no account to take out
our poor friend, under pain of the severest punishment. That, my dear
fellow, is the way in which those sweet faces, in appearance so tender
and so artless, would have formed a coalition against the stranger, and
that without a word beyond the question, 'Tell me, dear, do you know
that little woman in blue?'-- Look here, Martial, if you care to run the
gauntlet of more flattering glances and inviting questions than you will
ever again meet in the whole of your life, just try to get through the
triple rampart which defends that Queen of Dyle, or Lippe, or Charente.
You will see whether the dullest woman of them all will not be equal to
inventing some wile that would hinder the most determined man from
bringing the plaintive stranger to the light. Does it not strike you that
she looks like an elegy?"
"Do you think so, Montcornet? Then she must be a married woman?"
"Why not a widow?"
"She would be less passive," said the lawyer, laughing.
"She is perhaps the widow of a man who is gambling," replied the
handsome Colonel.
"To be sure; since the peace there are so many widows of that class!"
said Martial. "But my dear Montcornet, we are a couple of simpletons.
That face is still too ingenuous, there is too much youth and freshness
on the brow and temples for her to be married. What splendid
flesh-tints! Nothing has sunk in the modeling of the nose. Lips, chin,
everything in her face is as fresh as a white rosebud, though the
expression is veiled, as it were, by the clouds of sadness. Who can it be
that makes that young creature weep?"
"Women cry for so little," said the Colonel.
"I do not know," replied Martial; "but she does not cry because she is
left there without a partner; her grief is not of to-day. It is evident that
she has beautified herself for this evening with intention. I would wager
that she is in love already."
"Bah! She is perhaps the daughter of some German princeling; no one

talks to her," said Montcornet.
"Dear! how unhappy a poor child may be!" Martial went on. "Can there
be anything more graceful and refined than our little stranger? Well,
not one of those furies who stand round her, and who believe that they
can feel, will say a word to her. If she would but speak, we should see
if she has fine teeth.
"Bless me, you boil over like milk at the least increase of temperature!"
cried