In the little boudoir, at the opening of the bower, stood a couch, and
opposite this a little settee and two small gilded and embroidered
chairs; while two large sculptured frames, one containing a splendid
mirror, the other a life-size portrait of Mr. Dumany, completed the
appointments.

Mrs. Dumany, or, as she was called, the countess, wore a loose
morning-dress of raw silk, with rich embroidery. Her rich, dark hair was
uncovered and wound around her head in three thick coils, like a tiara.

Her graceful figure was as slender as that of a girl, and she looked so
young and childlike that no living man would have supposed her to be the
mother of five children.

In the peculiar blue light of the boudoir her naturally fair face
appeared so white that I was almost startled. It was just as though some
marble or alabaster statue had moved, looked at me with those large
dark-blue eyes, spoken to me with those finely-chiselled, ruby-coloured
lips.

"Pray pardon me for troubling you to call on me," she said, in fluent
and precise French, although with a somewhat foreign accent and manner
of speech; "I should not have done it were you not the only trustworthy
person from whom I can learn the necessary particulars of the terrible
Rossberg accident. My husband, as perhaps you already know, has invited
two gentlemen to dine with us. One is a government officer of high rank,
the other a kind and benevolent priest. My husband's intention is to
spend a considerable sum of money for distribution among those who were
injured in the Rossberg catastrophe, or their destitute relatives. They