tume--an exact reproduction of the
one worn by that monarch on his wedding-day--and he presented a very
fine figure. In features, expression, colouring, and manner it would
have been difficult to find, or imagine, a more fascinating puppet. An
unsurpassable actor of noble parts, he seemed created to play the hero
in deeds, the poet in thoughts, the lover on all occasions. Confident of
his attractions, he appeared quite free from vanity: each fresh attitude
became him better than the last: no light could do less than show the
classic beauty of his head and body. When he laughed, one could admire
his magnificent teeth; when he looked grave, one could enjoy the
splendid serenity of his brow and the passion in his deep brown eyes. It
was said that his legs alone would have made the plainest man a
dangerous rival, that his well-cut mouth would have made a monster
irresistible.

"So you don't think," said he, as he executed a final bow and kicked off
his shoes because a buckle stuck into his instep--"so you don't think,
Isidore, that Her Imperial Highness loves me?"

"I know she doesn't," replied his man. "I am not going to say that I see
more than I see."

"It may be that she cannot love," said the Marquis, "and I don't think
less of her on that account. These sentimental girls become very
monotonous and sickening. The women whom men love the longest are prim,
stand-off women. Have you noticed that, Isidore?"

"No, I haven't noticed that. I haven't noticed much love lasting long
for any kind of person."

"There's something in your stupidity which refreshes me. I have a strong
notion to marry Her Imperial Highness. I could make her happy."

"Not you."

"I tell you I could. She has the oddest effect upon me. No other woman
has ever affected me in such a way. I feel when I am with her as though
we were well matched. If I were a King, I would make her my Queen. I
might love others, but I should always say, 'Remember the Queen. The
Queen must be remembered, and honoured, and obeyed in all things.'
Sometimes I see myself--with her--at a kind of Versailles: every one
standing up as we enter: Her Majesty very pale and tall and wonderful
in a blue velvet robe and pearls, I would adore her with a passion as
constant as it was respectful. I should ask in return _une amitie la
plus tendre_. Isidore, she is an angel. The sweetness of her soul is in
her face--in the very sound of her voice. I am a little too material to
be so sub