"Dear me, madame, I assure you I wrote that 'portrait' with the help
of biographies which had been published in Germany. I have never seen
Monsieur de Bismarck."

He remained beside the countess and, while talking with her, continued
his meditations. She did not look her age; one would have set her down
as being twenty-eight at most, for her eyes, above all, which were
filled with the dark blue shadow of her long eyelashes, retained the
glowing light of youth. Bred in a divided family, so that she used to
spend one month with the Marquis de Chouard, another with the marquise,
she had been married very young, urged on, doubtless, by her father,
whom she embarrassed after her mother's death. A terrible man was the
marquis, a man about whom strange tales were beginning to be told, and
that despite his lofty piety! Fauchery asked if he should have the honor
of meeting him. Certainly her father was coming, but only very late; he
had so much work on hand! The journalist thought he knew where the old
gentleman passed his evenings and looked grave. But a mole, which he
noticed close to her mouth on the countess's left cheek, surprised him.
Nana had precisely the same mole. It was curious. Tiny hairs curled up
on it, only they were golden in Nana's case, black as jet in this. Ah
well, never mind! This woman enjoyed nobody's embraces.

"I have always felt a wish to know Queen Augusta," she said. "They say
she is so good, so devout. Do you think she will accompany the king?"

"It is not thought that she will, madame," he replied.

She had no lovers: the thing was only too apparent. One had only to
look at her there by the side of that daughter of hers, sitting so
insignificant and constrained on her footstool. That sepulchral drawing