black, and their blue, for they
put on blue too, God forgive me!"

"Yes, aunt, Polish blue; it is put on with a stump; it is for the veins."

With interest: "They imitate veins! It is shocking, upon my word. But you
seem to know all about it?"

"Oh, I have played so often in private theatricals; I have even quite a
collection of little pots of color, hare's-feet stumps, pencils, et
cetera."

"Ah! you have, you rascal! Are you going to the fancy ball at the Embassy
to-morrow?"

"Yes, aunt; and you, are you going in character?"

"One must, since every one else will. They say the effect will be
splendid." After a silence: "I shall wear powder; do you think it will
suit me?"

"Better than any one, my dear aunt; you will look adorable, I feel
certain."

"We shall see, you little courtier."

She rose, gave me her hand to kiss with an air of exquisite grace, and
seemed about to withdraw, then, seemingly changing her mind:

"Since you are going to the Embassy to-morrow, Ernest, call for me; I
will give you a seat in the carriage. You can give me your opinion on my
costume, and then," she broke into a laugh, and taking me by the hand,
added in my ear: "Bring your little pots and come early. This is between
ourselves." She put her finger to her lip as a signal for discretion.
"Till tomorrow, then."

The following evening my aunt's bedroom presented a spectacle of most
wild disorder.

Her maid and the dressmaker, with haggard eyes, for they had been up all
night, were both on their knees, rummaging amidst the bows of satin, and
feverishly sticking in pins.

"How late you are," said my aunt to me. "Do you know that it is eleven
o'clock? and we have," she continued, showing her white teeth, "a great
many things to do yet. The horses have been put to this last hour. I am
sure they will take cold in that icy courtyard." As she spoke she
stretched out her foot, shod with a red-heeled slipper, glittering with
gold embroidery. Her plump foot seemed to overflow the side of the shoe a
trifle, and through the openwork of her bright silk stocking the rosy
skin of her ankle showed at intervals.

"What do you think of me, Monsieur Artist?"

"But, Countess, my dear aunt, I mean, I--I am dazzled by this July sun,
the brightest of all the year, you know. You are adorable, adorable--and
your hair!"

"Is it not well arranged? Silvani did it; he has not his equal, that man.
The diamonds in the hair go splendidly, and then this