e 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 of the birds
in the woods, the long golden reflections under the trees, all seemed to
unite in filling the soul with sadness; but neither the murmuring water,
the singing birds, nor the sun's splendor was paid any attention to by
Madame de Bergenheim; she gave them neither a glance nor a sigh. Her
meditation was not revery, but thought; not thoughts of the past, but of
the present. There was something precise and positive in the rapid,
intelligent glance which flashed from her eyes when she raised them; it
was as if she had a lucid foresight of an approaching drama.

A moment after she had passed over the wooden bridge which led from the
avenue, a man wearing a blouse crossed it and followed her