face questioningly towards him. Words cannot describe the subtlety of
the winning charm and inquiry in that gesture; deliberate in its
kindliness, gracious yet accurate in expression, it was the outcome of
early education and of a constant use and wont of the graciousness of
life. These movements of hers, so swift, so deft, succeeded each other
by the blending of a pretty woman's fastidious carelessness with the
high-bred manner of a great lady.

Mme. de Beauseant stood out in such strong contrast against the
automatons among whom he had spent two months of exile in that
out-of-the-world district of Normandy, that he could not but find in
her the realization of his romantic dreams; and, on the other hand,
he could not compare her perfections with those of other women whom he
had formerly admired. Here in her presence, in a drawing-room like some
salon in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, full of costly trifles lying
about upon the tables, and flowers and books, he felt as if he were
back in Paris. It was a real Parisian carpet beneath his feet, he saw
once more the high-bred type of Parisienne, the fragile outlines of
her form, her exquisite charm, her disdain of the studied effects
which did so much to spoil provincial women.

Mme. de Beauseant had fair hair and dark eyes, and the pale complexion
that belongs to fair hair. She held up her brow nobly like some fallen
angel, grown proud through the fall, disdainful of pardon. Her way of
gathering her thick hair into a crown of plaits above the broad,
curving lines of the bandeaux upon her forehead, added to the
queenliness of her face. Imagination could discover the ducal coronet
of Burgundy in the spiral threads of her golden hair; all the courage
of her house seemed to gleam from the great lady's brilliant eyes,
such courage as women use to repel audacity or scorn, for they were