the old vice-queen of Poland, at the age of nearly a hundred, has the
heart and brain of youth, a charming face, an elegant shape; and in
her conversation, sparkling with brilliancy like faggots in the fire,
she can compare the men and books of our literature with the men and
books of the eighteenth century. Living in Warsaw, she orders her caps
of Herbault in Paris. She is a great lady with the amiability of a
mere girl; she swims, she runs like a schoolboy, and can sink on to a
sofa with the grace of a young coquette; she mocks at death, and
laughs at life. After having astonished the Emperor Alexander, she can
still amaze the Emperor Nicholas by the splendor of her
entertainments. She can still bring tears to the eyes of a youthful
lover, for her age is whatever she pleases, and she has the exquisite
self-devotion of a grisette. In short, she is herself a fairy tale,
unless, indeed, she is a fairy.

Had Madame d'Espard known Madame Zayonseck? Did she mean to imitate
her career? Be that as it may, the Marquise proved the merits of the
treatment; her complexion was clear, her brow unwrinkled, her figure,
like that of Henri II.'s lady-love, preserved the litheness, the
freshness, the covered charms which bring a woman love and keep it
alive. The simple precautions of this course, suggested by art and
nature, and perhaps by experience, had met in her with a general
system which confirmed the results. The Marquise was absolutely
indifferent to everything that was not herself: men amused her, but no
man had ever caused her those deep agitations which stir both natures
to their depths, and wreck one on the other. She knew neither hatred
nor love. When she was offended, she avenged herself coldly, quietly,
at her leisure, waiting for the opportunity to gratify the ill-will
she cherished against anybody who dwelt in her unfavorable
remembrance. She made no fuss, she did not excite herself, she talked,