their lustre was reflected upon himself.
Nevertheless, it was evident that "Marquis" jingled to his ear much
more pleasantly than "Baronne."

Remaining alone, M. de Tregars threw himself upon a seat. Worn out
by the emotions of the day, and by an extraordinary contention of
mind, he felt thankful for this moment of respite, which permitted
him, at the moment of a decisive step, to collect all his energy
and all his presence of mind.

And after two minutes he was so deeply absorbed in his thoughts,
that he started, like a man suddenly aroused from his sleep, at
the sound of an opening door. At the same moment he heard a slight
exclamation of surprise, "Ah!"

Instead of the Baroness de Thaller, it was her daughter, Mlle.
Cesarine, who had come in.

Stepping forward to the centre of the room, and acknowledging by a
familiar gesture M. de Tregars' most respectful bow,

"You should warn people," she said. "I came here to look for my
mother, and it is you I find. Why, you scared me to death. What
a crack! Princess dear!"

And taking the young man's hand, and pressing it to her breast,

"Feel," she added, "how my heart beats."

Younger than Mlle. Gilberte, Mlle. Cesarine de Thaller had a
reputation for beauty so thoroughly established, that to call it
in question would have seemed a crime to her numerous admirers.
And really she was a handsome person. Rather tall and well made,
she had broad hips, the waist round and supple as a steel rod,
and a magnificent throat. Her neck was, perhaps, a little too
thick and too short; but upon her robust shoulders was scattered
in wild ringlets the rebellious hair that escaped from her comb.
She was a blonde, but of that reddish blonde, almost as dark as
mahogany, which Titian admired, and which the handsome Venetians
obtained by means of rather repulsive practices, and by exposing
themselves to the noonday sun on the terraces of their palaces.
Her complexion had the gilded hues of amber. Her lips, red as
blood, displayed as they opened, teeth of dazzling whiteness. In
her large prominent eyes, of a milky blue, like the Northern skies,
laughed the eternal irony of a soul that no longer has faith in
any thing. More anxious of her fame than of good taste, she wore
a dress of doubtful shade, puffed up by means of an extravagant
pannier, and buttoned obliquely across the chest, according to
that ridiculous and ungraceful style invented by flat or humped
women.

Throwin