witty, refined,
and received (as a Cadignan) by the Princesse de Blamont-Chauvry,
that oracle of the noble faubourg, loved by her rivals the Duchesse
de Maufrigneuse her cousin, the Marquise d'Espard, and Madame de
Macumer,--Madame Firmiani gratified all the vanities which feed or
excite love. She was therefore sought by too many men not to fall a
victim to Parisian malice and its charming calumnies, whispered behind
a fan or in a safe aside. It was necessary to quote the remarks given
at the beginning of this history to bring out the true Firmiani in
contradistinction to the Firmiani of society. If some women forgave
her happiness, others did not forgive her propriety. Now nothing is so
dangerous in Paris as unfounded suspicions,--for the reason that it is
impossible to destroy them.

This sketch of a woman who was admirably natural gives only a faint idea
of her. It would need the pencil of an Ingres to render the pride of
that brow, with its wealth of hair, the dignity of that glance, and the
thoughts betrayed by the changing colors of her cheeks. In her were all
things; poets could have found an Agnes Sorel and a Joan of Arc, also
the woman unknown, the Soul within that form, the soul of Eve, the
knowledge of the treasures of good and the riches of evil, error and
resignation, crime and devotion, the Donna Julia and the Haidee of Lord
Byron.

The former guardsman stayed, with apparent impertinence, after the
other guests had left the salons; and Madame Firmiani found him sitting
quietly before her in an armchair, evidently determined to remain, with
the pertinacity of a fly which we are forced to kill to get rid of it.
The hands of the clock marked two in the morning.

"Madame," said the old gentlemen, as Madame Firmiani rose, hoping to
make him understand that it was her good pleasure he should go, "Madame,
I am the uncle of Monsieur Octave de Camps."

Madame Firmiani immediately sat down again, and showed her emotion. In
spite of his sagacity the old Planter was unable to decide whether
she turned pale from shame or pleasure. There are pleasures, delicious
emotions the chaste heart seeks to veil, which cannot escape the shock
of startled modesty. The more delicacy a woman has, the more she seeks
to hide the joys that are in her soul. Many women, incomprehensible in
their tender caprices, long to hear a name pronounced which at other
times they desire to bury in their hearts. Monsieur de Bourbonne did not
inte