in a large
cashmere shawl which fell in irregular folds to the ground. Madame de
Bergenheim had one of those faces which other women would call not at
all remarkable, but which intelligent men ardently admire. At the
first glance she seemed hardly pretty; at the second, she attracted
involuntary admiration; afterward, it was difficult to keep her out
of one's thoughts. Her features, which taken separately might seem
irregular, were singularly harmonious, and, like a thin veil which
tempers a too dazzling light, softened the whole expression. Her light
chestnut hair was arranged about the temples in ingenious waves; while
her still darker eyebrows gave, at times, an imposing gravity to her
face. The same contrast was to be found in the mouth; the short distance
which separated it from the nose would indicate, according to Lavater,
unusual energy; but the prominent underlip impregnated her smile with
enchanting voluptuousness. Her rather clearcut features, the exceeding
brilliancy of her brown eyes, which seemed like diamonds set in jet,
would, perhaps, have given to the whole rather too strong a character
had not these eyes when veiled given to their dazzling rays a glamour of
indescribable softness.

The effect produced by this face might be compared to that of a prism,
every facet of which reflects a different color. The ardor burning under
this changeable surface, which, through some sudden cause, betrayed its
presence, was so deeply hidden, however, that it seemed impossible to
fathom it completely. Was she a coquette, or simply a fashionable lady,
or a devotee? In one word, was she imbued with the most egotistical
pride or the most exalted love? One might suppose anything, but know
nothing; one remained undecided and thoughtful, but fascinated, the mind
plunged into ecstatic contemplation such as the portrait of Monna Lisa
inspires. An observer might have perceived that she had one of
those hearts, so finely strung, from which a clever hand might make
incomparable harmonies of passion gush; but perhaps he would be
mistaken. So many women have their souls only in their eyes!

Madame de Bergenheim's revery rendered the mysterious and impenetrable
veil which usually enveloped her countenance more unfathomable yet. What
sentiment made her bend her head and walk slowly as she meditated? Was
it the ennui of which she had just complained to her aunt? Was it pure
melancholy? The monotonous ripple of the stream, the singing