full of tenderness for gentleness. The outline of that little head, so
admirably poised above the long, white throat, the delicate, fine
features, the subtle curves of the lips, the mobile face itself, wore
an expression of delicate discretion, a faint semblance of irony
suggestive of craft and insolence. Yet it would have been difficult to
refuse forgiveness to those two feminine failings in her; for the
lines that came out in her forehead whenever her face was not in
repose, like her upward glances (that pathetic trick of manner), told
unmistakably of unhappiness, of a passion that had all but cost her
her life. A woman, sitting in the great, silent salon, a woman cut off
from the rest of the world in this remote little valley, alone, with
the memories of her brilliant, happy, and impassioned youth, of
continual gaiety and homage paid on all sides, now replaced by the
horrors of the void--was there not something in the sight to strike
awe that deepened with reflection? Consciousness of her own value
lurked in her smile. She was neither wife nor mother, she was an
outlaw; she had lost the one heart that could set her pulses beating
without shame; she had nothing from without to support her reeling
soul; she must even look for strength from within, live her own life,
cherish no hope save that of forsaken love, which looks forward to
Death's coming, and hastens his lagging footsteps. And this while life
was in its prime. Oh! to feel destined for happiness and to die--never
having given nor received it! A woman too! What pain was this! These
thoughts flashing across M. de Nueil's mind like lightning, left him
very humble in the presence of the greatest charm with which woman can
be invested. The triple aureole of beauty, nobleness, and misfortune
dazzled him; he stood in dreamy, almost open-mouthed admiration of the
Vicomtesse. But he found nothing to say to her.

Mme. de Beauseant, by no means displeased, no doubt, by his surprise,