Vicomtesse, returned to say that she would receive him.

"M. le Baron de Nueil."

Gaston came in slowly, but with sufficient ease of manner; and it is a
more difficult thing, be it said, to enter a room where there is but
one woman, than a room that holds a score.

A great fire was burning on the hearth in spite of the mild weather,
and by the soft light of the candles in the sconces he saw a young
woman sitting on a high-backed /bergere/ in the angle by the hearth.
The seat was so low that she could move her head freely; every turn of
it was full of grace and delicate charm, whether she bent, leaning
forward, or raised and held it erect, slowly and languidly, as though
it were a heavy burden, so low that she could cross her feet and let
them appear, or draw them back under the folds of a long black dress.

The Vicomtesse made as if she would lay the book that she was reading
on a small, round stand; but as she did so, she turned towards M. de
Nueil, and the volume, insecurely laid upon the edge, fell to the
ground between the stand and the sofa. This did not seem to disconcert
her. She looked up, bowing almost imperceptibly in response to his
greeting, without rising from the depths of the low chair in which she
lay. Bending forwards, she stirred the fire briskly, and stooped to
pick up a fallen glove, drawing it mechanically over her left hand,
while her eyes wandered in search of its fellow. The glance was
instantly checked, however, for she stretched out a thin, white,
all-but-transparent right hand, with flawless ovals of rose-colored
nail at the tips of the slender, ringless fingers, and pointed to a
chair as if to bid Gaston be seated. He sat down, and she turned her