The way in which the Marquise leaned both elbows on the arm of her
chair, the toying of her interclasped fingers, the curve of her
throat, the indolent lines of her languid but lissome body as she lay
back in graceful exhaustion, as it were; her indolent limbs, her
unstudied pose, the utter lassitude of her movements,--all suggested
that this was a woman for whom life had lost its interest, a woman who
had known the joys of love only in dreams, a woman bowed down by the
burden of memories of the past, a woman who had long since despaired
of the future and despaired of herself, an unoccupied woman who took
the emptiness of her own life for the nothingness of life.

Charles de Vandenesse saw and admired the beautiful picture before
him, as a kind of artistic success beyond an ordinary woman's powers
of attainment. He was acquainted with d'Aiglemont; and now, at the
first sight of d'Aiglemont's wife, the young diplomatist saw at a
glance a disproportionate marriage, an incompatibility (to use the
legal jargon) so great that it was impossible that the Marquise should
love her husband. And yet--the Marquise d'Aiglemont's life was above
reproach, and for any observer the mystery about her was the more
interesting on this account. The first impulse of surprise over,
Vandenesse cast about for the best way of approaching Mme.
d'Aiglemont. He would try a commonplace piece of diplomacy, he
thought; he would disconcert her by a piece of clumsiness and see how
she would receive it.

"Madame," he said, seating himself near her, "through a fortunate
indiscretion I have learned that, for some reason unknown to me, I
have had the good fortune to attract your notice. I owe you the more
thanks because I have never been so honored before. At the same time,
you are responsible for one of my faults, for I mean never to be