The
old Vendeen was not to be discouraged in bringing forward suitors, so
much had he his daughter's happiness at heart, but nothing could be
more absurd than the way in which the impertinent young thing
pronounced her verdicts and judged the merits of her adorers. It might
have been supposed that, like a princess in the Arabian Nights, Emilie
was rich enough and beautiful enough to choose from among all the
princes in the world. Her objections were each more preposterous than
the last: one had too thick knees and was bow-legged, another was
short-sighted, this one's name was Durand, that one limped, and almost
all were too fat. Livelier, more attractive, and gayer than ever after
dismissing two or three suitors, she rushed into the festivities of
the winter season, and to balls, where her keen eyes criticised the
celebrities of the day, delighted in encouraging proposals which she
invariably rejected.
Nature had bestowed on her all the advantages needed for playing the
part of Celimene. Tall and slight, Emilie de Fontaine could assume a
dignified or a frolicsome mien at her will. Her neck was rather long,
allowing her to affect beautiful attitudes of scorn and impertinence.
She had cultivated a large variety of those turns of the head and
feminine gestures, which emphasize so cruelly or so happily a hint of
a smile. Fine black hair, thick and strongly-arched eyebrows, lent her
countenance an expression of pride, to which her coquettish instincts
and her mirror had taught her to add terror by a stare, or gentleness
by the softness of her gaze, by the set of the gracious curve of her
lips, by the coldness or the sweetness of her smile.
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