her enriched it by their tasteful comfort. The boudoir was lined
with some red stuff, over which an Indian muslin was stretched, fluted
after the fashion of Corinthian columns, in plaits going in and out, and
bound at the top and bottom by bands of poppy-colored stuff, on which
were designs in black arabesque.

Below the muslin the poppy turned to rose, that amorous color, which
was matched by window-curtains, which were of Indian muslin lined with
rose-colored taffeta, and set off with a fringe of poppy-color and
black. Six silver-gilt arms, each supporting two candles, were attached
to the tapestry at an equal distance, to illuminate the divan. The
ceiling, from the middle of which a lustre of unpolished silver hung,
was of a brilliant whiteness, and the cornice was gilded. The carpet was
like an Oriental shawl; it had the designs and recalled the poetry of
Persia, where the hands of slaves had worked on it. The furniture
was covered in white cashmere, relieved by black and poppy-colored
ornaments. The clock, the candelabra, all were in white marble and gold.
The only table there had a cloth of cashmere. Elegant flower-pots held
roses of every kind, flowers white or red. In fine, the least detail
seemed to have been the object of loving thought. Never had richness
hidden itself more coquettishly to become elegance, to express grace,
to inspire pleasure. Everything there would have warmed the coldest
of beings. The caresses of the tapestry, of which the color changed
according to the direction of one's gaze, becoming either all white
or all rose, harmonized with the effects of the light shed upon the
diaphanous tissues of the muslin, which produced an appearance of
mistiness. The soul has I know not what attraction towards white, love
delights in red, and the passions are flattered by gold, which has the
power of realizing their caprices. Thus all that man possesses within
him of vague and mysterious, all his inexplicable affinities, were
caressed in their involuntary sympathies. There was in this perfect
harmony a concert of color to which the soul responded with vague and
voluptuous and fluctuating ideas.

It was out of a misty atmosphere, laden with exquisite perfumes, that
Paquita, clad in a white wrapper, her feet bare, orange blossoms in her
black hair, appeared to Henri, knelt before him, adoring him as the god
of this temple, whither he had deigned to come. Although De Marsay
was accustomed to seeing the utmos