Fine black hair curled
naturally over a high forehead. At a glance Mademoiselle de Fontaine
observed that his linen was fine, his gloves fresh, and evidently
bought of a good maker, and his feet were small and well shod in boots
of Irish kid. He had none of the vulgar trinkets displayed by the
dandies of the National Guard or the Lovelaces of the counting-house.
A black ribbon, to which an eye-glass was attached, hung over a
waistcoat of the most fashionable cut. Never had the fastidious Emilie
seen a man's eyes shaded by such long, curled lashes. Melancholy and
passion were expressed in this face, and the complexion was of a manly
olive hue. His mouth seemed ready to smile, unbending the corners of
eloquent lips; but this, far from hinting at gaiety, revealed on the
contrary a sort of pathetic grace. There was too much promise in that
head, too much distinction in his whole person, to allow of one's
saying, "What a handsome man!" or "What a fine man!" One wanted to
know him. The most clear-sighted observer, on seeing this stranger,
could not have helped taking him for a clever man attracted to this
rural festivity by some powerful motive.
All these observations cost Emilie only a minute's attention, during
which the privileged gentleman under her severe scrutiny became the
object of her secret admiration. She did not say to herself, "He must
be a peer of France!" but "Oh, if only he is noble, and he surely must
be----" Without finishing her thought, she suddenly rose, and followed
by her brother the General, she made her way towards the column,
affecting to watch the merry quadrille; but by a stratagem of the eye,
familiar to women, she lost not a gesture of the young man as she went
towards him.
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