l
by clouds of white material the maidens of Ossian, so poetically painted
by Girodet. Her fair hair draped her elongated face with a mass of
curls, among which rippled the rays of the foot-lights attracted by the
shining of a perfumed oil. Her white brow sparkled. She had applied an
imperceptible tinge of rouge to her cheeks, upon the faded whiteness of
a skin revived by bran and water. A scarf so delicate in texture that it
made one doubt if human fingers could have fabricated such gossamer, was
wound about her throat to diminish its length, and partly conceal
it; leaving imperfectly visible the treasures of the bust which were
cleverly enclosed in a corset. Her figure was indeed a masterpiece of
composition.

As for her pose, one word will suffice--it was worthy of the pains she
had taken to arrange it. Her arms, now thin and hard, were scarcely
visible within the puffings of her very large sleeves. She presented
that mixture of false glitter and brilliant fabrics, of silken gauze and
craped hair, of vivacity, calmness, and motion which goes by the term
of the _Je ne sais quoi_. Everybody knows in what that consists, namely:
great cleverness, some taste, and a certain composure of manner. Beatrix
might now be called a decorative scenic effect, changed at will, and
wonderfully manipulated. The presentation of this fairy effect, to which
is added clever dialogue, turns the heads of men who are endowed by
nature with frankness, until they become possessed, through the law
of contrasts, by a frantic desire to play with artifice. It is false,
though enticing; a pretence, but agreeable; and certain men adore women
who play at seduction as others do at cards. And this is why: The desire
of the man is a syllogism which draws conclusions from this external
science as to the secret promises of pleasure. The inner consciousness
says, without words: "A woman who can, as it were, create herself
beautiful must have many other resources for love." And that is true.
Deserted women are usually those who merely love; those who retain
love know the _art_ of loving. Now, though her Italian lesson had very
cruelly maltreated the self-love and vanity of Madame de Rochefide, her
nature was too instinctively artificial not to profit by it.

"It is not a question of loving a man," she was saying a few moments
before Calyste had entered her box; "we must tease and harass him if
we want to keep him. That's the secret of all those women who se