e on my second visit to Marseilles. Her name was Madame Audibert.

I did not wait for the play to end, but went where love called me. I had
a delightful surprise when I saw Rosalie; I should not have known her.
But I cannot resist the pleasure of recalling her picture as she stood
before me then, despite the years that have rolled by since that happy
moment.

Rosalie was an enticing-looking brunette, above the middle height. Her
face was a perfect oval, and exquisitely proportioned. Two fine black
eyes shed a soft and ravishing light around. Her eyebrows were arched,
and she had a wealth of hair, black and shining as ebony; her skin was
while and lightly tinged with colour. On her chin was a dimple, and her
slightest smile summoned into being two other dimples, one on each cheek.
Her mouth was small, disclosing two rows of fairest orient pearls, and
from her red lips flowed forth an indefinable sweetness. The lower lip
projected ever so lightly, and seemed designed to hold a kiss. I have
spoken of her arms, her breast, and her figure, which left nothing to be
desired, but I must add to this catalogue of her charms, that her hand
was exquisitely shaped, and that her foot was the smallest I have ever
seen. As to her other beauties, I will content myself with saying that
they were in harmony with those I have described.

To see her at her best, one had to see her smiling; and hitherto she had
been sad or vexed--states of mind which detract from a woman's
appearance. But now sadness was gone, and gratitude and pleasure had
taken its place. I examined her closely, and felt proud, as I saw what a
transformation I had effected; but I concealed my surprise, lest she
should think I had formed an unfavourable impression of her. I proceeded,
therefore, to tell her that I should expose myself to ridicule if I
attempted to keep a beauty like herself for a servant.

"You shall be my mistress," I said, "and my servants shall respect you as
if you were my wife."

At this Rosalie, as if I had given her another being, began to try and
express her gratitude for what I had done. Her words, which passion made
confused, increased my joy; here was no art nor deceit, but simple
nature.

There was no mirror in her garret, so she had dressed by her sense of
touch, and I could see that she was afraid to stand up and look at
herself in the mirror in my room. I knew the weak spot in all women's
hearts (which men are very wrong in considering