its, without ornament of any kind; she seemed to have bidden
farewell for ever to elaborate toilettes. Nor were any of the small arts
of coquetry which spoil so many women to be detected in her. Perhaps
her bodice, modest though it was, did not altogether conceal the dainty
grace of her figure, perhaps, too, her gown looked rich from the
extreme distinction of its fashion, and if it is permissible to look for
expression in the arrangement of stuffs, surely those numerous straight
folds invested her with a great dignity. There may have been some
lingering trace of the indelible feminine foible in the minute care
bestowed upon her hand and foot; yet, if she allowed them to be seen
with some pleasure, it would have tasked the utmost malice of a rival to
discover any affectation in her gestures, so natural did they seem, so
much a part of old childish habit, that her careless grace absolved this
vestige of vanity.

All these little characteristics, the nameless trifles which combine to
make up the sum of a woman's prettiness or ugliness, her charm or lack
of charm, can only be indicated, when, as with Mme. d'Aiglemont, a
personality dominates and gives coherence to the details, informing
them, blending them all in an exquisite whole. Her manner was perfectly
in accord with her style of beauty and her dress. Only to certain women
at a certain age is it given to put language into their attitude. Is it
joy or is it sorrow that teaches a woman of thirty the secret of that
eloquence of carriage, so that she must always remain an enigma which
each interprets by the aid of his hopes, desires, or theories?

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 acquain