Room in the Dragon Volant | Page 3

had fallen in love. The lady stood with her back toward me. I
could not tell whether the envious veil was raised; she was reading a
letter.
I stood for a minute in fixed attention, gazing upon her, in vague hope
that she might turn about and give me an opportunity of seeing her
features. She did not; but with a step or two she placed herself before a
little cabriole-table, which stood against the wall, from which rose a tall
mirror in a tarnished frame.
I might, indeed, have mistaken it for a picture; for it now reflected a
half-length portrait of a singularly beautiful woman.
She was looking down upon a letter which she held in her slender
fingers, and in which she seemed absorbed.
The face was oval, melancholy, sweet. It had in it, nevertheless, a faint
and undefinably sensual quality also. Nothing could exceed the
delicacy of its features, or the brilliancy of its tints. The eyes, indeed,
were lowered, so that I could not see their color; nothing but their long
lashes and delicate eyebrows. She continued reading. She must have
been deeply interested; I never saw a living form so motionless--I
gazed on a tinted statue.
Being at that time blessed with long and keen vision, I saw this
beautiful face with perfect distinctness. I saw even the blue veins that
traced their wanderings on the whiteness of her full throat.
I ought to have retreated as noiselessly as I came in, before my
presence was detected. But I was too much interested to move from the
spot, for a few moments longer; and while they were passing, she
raised her eyes. Those eyes were large, and of that hue which modern

poets term "violet."
These splendid melancholy eyes were turned upon me from the glass,
with a haughty stare, and hastily the lady lowered her black veil, and
turned about.
I fancied that she hoped I had not seen her. I was watching every look
and movement, the minutest, with an attention as intense as if an ordeal
involving my life depended on them.

Chapter II
THE INN-YARD OF THE BELLE ÉTOILE
The face was, indeed, one to fall in love with at first sight. Those
sentiments that take such sudden possession of young men were now
dominating my curiosity. My audacity faltered before her; and I felt
that my presence in this room was probably an impertinence. This point
she quickly settled, for the same very sweet voice I had heard before,
now said coldly, and this time in French, "Monsieur cannot be aware
that this apartment is not public."
I bowed very low, faltered some apologies, and backed to the door.
I suppose I looked penitent, and embarrassed. I certainly felt so; for the
lady said, by way it seemed of softening matters, "I am happy, however,
to have an opportunity of again thanking Monsieur for the assistance,
so prompt and effectual, which he had the goodness to render us
today."
It was more the altered tone in which it was spoken, than the speech
itself, that encouraged me. It was also true that she need not have
recognized me; and if she had, she certainly was not obliged to thank
me over again.
All this was indescribably flattering, and all the more so that it
followed so quickly on her slight reproof. The tone in which she spoke

had become low and timid, and I observed that she turned her head
quickly towards a second door of the room; I fancied that the
gentleman in the black wig, a jealous husband perhaps, might reappear
through it. Almost at the same moment, a voice at once reedy and nasal
was heard snarling some directions to a servant, and evidently
approaching. It was the voice that had thanked me so profusely, from
the carriage windows, about an hour before.
"Monsieur will have the goodness to retire," said the lady, in a tone that
resembled entreaty, at the same time gently waving her hand toward the
door through which I had entered. Bowing again very low, I stepped
back, and closed the door.
I ran down the stairs, very much elated. I saw the host of the Belle
Étoile which, as I said, was the sign and designation of my inn.
I described the apartment I had just quitted, said I liked it, and asked
whether I could have it.
He was extremely troubled, but that apartment and two adjoining
rooms were engaged.
"By whom?"
"People of distinction."
"But who are they? They must have names or titles."
"Undoubtedly, Monsieur, but such a stream is rolling into Paris, that we
have ceased to inquire the names or titles of our guests--we designate
them simply by the rooms they occupy."
"What stay do they make?"