Modeste Mignon | Page 9

be subjected. Perhaps at the last

moment she revolted from the stratagem, necessary as it might seem to
her. Hence her silence; she was weeping inwardly. Exupere, the spring
of the trap, was wholly ignorant of the piece in which he was to play a
part. Gobenheim, by reason of his character, remained in a state of
indifference equal to that displayed by Modeste. To a spectator who
understood the situation, this contrast between the ignorance of some
and the palpitating interest of others would have seemed quite poetic.
Nowadays romance-writers arrange such effects; and it is quite within
their province to do so, for nature in all ages takes the liberty to be
stronger than they. In this instance, as you will see, nature, social nature,
which is a second nature within nature, amused herself by making truth
more interesting than fiction; just as mountain torrents describe curves
which are beyond the skill of painters to convey, and accomplish giant
deeds in displacing or smoothing stones which are the wonder of
architects and sculptors.
It was eight o'clock. At that season twilight was still shedding its last
gleams; there was not a cloud in the sky; the balmy air caressed the
earth, the flowers gave forth their fragrance, the steps of pedestrians
turning homeward sounded along the gravelly road, the sea shone like a
mirror, and there was so little wind that the wax candles upon the
card-tables sent up a steady flame, although the windows were wide
open. This salon, this evening, this dwelling--what a frame for the
portrait of the young girl whom these persons were now studying with
the profound attention of a painter in presence of the Margharita Doni,
one of the glories of the Pitti palace. Modeste,--blossom enclosed, like
that of Catullus,--was she worth all these precautions?
You have seen the cage; behold the bird! Just twenty years of age,
slender and delicate as the sirens which English designers invent for
their "Books of Beauty," Modeste was, like her mother before her, the
captivating embodiment of a grace too little understood in France,
where we choose to call it sentimentality, but which among German
women is the poetry of the heart coming to the surface of the being and
spending itself--in affectations if the owner is silly, in divine charms of
manner if she is "spirituelle" and intelligent. Remarkable for her pale
golden hair, Modeste belonged to the type of woman called, perhaps in

memory of Eve, the celestial blonde; whose satiny skin is like a silk
paper applied to the flesh, shuddering at the winter of a cold look,
expanding in the sunshine of a loving glance,-- teaching the hand to be
jealous of the eye. Beneath her hair, which was soft and feathery and
worn in many curls, the brow, which might have been traced by a
compass so pure was its modelling, shone forth discreet, calm to
placidity, and yet luminous with thought: when and where could
another be found so transparently clear or more exquisitely smooth? It
seemed, like a pearl, to have its orient. The eyes, of a blue verging on
gray and limpid as the eyes of a child, had all the mischief, all the
innocence of childhood, and they harmonized well with the arch of the
eyebrows, faintly indicated by lines like those made with a brush on
Chinese faces. This candor of the soul was still further evidenced
around the eyes, in their corners, and about the temples, by pearly tints
threaded with blue, the special privilege of these delicate complexions.
The face, whose oval Raphael so often gave to his Madonnas, was
remarkable for the sober and virginal tone of the cheeks, soft as a
Bengal rose, upon which the long lashes of the diaphanous eyelids cast
shadows that were mingled with light. The throat, bending as she
worked, too delicate perhaps, and of milky whiteness, recalled those
vanishing lines that Leonardo loved. A few little blemishes here and
there, like the patches of the eighteenth century, proved that Modeste
was indeed a child of earth, and not a creation dreamed of in Italy by
the angelic school. Her lips, delicate yet full, were slightly mocking and
somewhat sensuous; the waist, which was supple and yet not fragile,
had no terrors for maternity, like those of girls who seek beauty by the
fatal pressure of a corset. Steel and dimity and lacings defined but did
not create the serpentine lines of the elegant figure, graceful as that of a
young poplar swaying in the wind.
A pearl-gray dress with crimson trimmings, made with a long waist,
modestly outlined the bust and covered the shoulders, still rather thin,
with a chemisette which left nothing to view but the first curves of the
throat where it joined the shoulders.