LX.


If I were to live a thousand times a thousand years, I should never
forget that instant and that sight. She was standing up in the light,
her elbow resting carelessly on the white marble of the chimney; her
tall and slender figure, her shoulders, and her profile, were reflected
in the glass; her face was turned towards the door, her eyes fixed on a
little dark passage leading to the drawing-room, and her head was bent
forward, and slightly inclined on one side, in the attitude of one
listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. She was dressed in
mourning, in a black silk dress trimmed with black lace round the neck
and the skirt. This profusion of lace, rumpled by the cushions of the
sofa to which her indolent and languid life confined her, hung around
her like the black and clustering bunches of the elder, shedding its
berries in the autumnal wind. The dark color of her gown left only her
shoulders, neck, and face in light, and the mourning of her dress
seemed completed by the natural mourning of her dark hair, which was
gathered up at the back of her head. This uniformity of color added to
her height, and showed to advantage her graceful and flexible figure.
The reflection of the fire in the glass, the light of the lamp on the
chimney-piece striking on her cheek, and the animation of impatient
expectation and love, shed on her countenance a splendor of youth,
bloom, and life, which seemed a transfiguration effected by love.

My first exclamation was one of joy and delighted surprise at seeing
her thus, more living, lovely, and immortal, in my eyes, than I had