derstanding me or not I could not say. "Nor I either,"
added he. "There, now, is something far more to my taste; is she not a
lovely girl?"

She to whom he now directed my attention was standing at the side of
the room, and leaning on her partner's arm; her head slightly turned,
so that we could not see her features, but her figure was actually
faultless. Hers was not one of those gossamer shapes which flitted
around and about us, balancing on tiptoe, or gracefully floating with
extending arms. Rather strongly built than otherwise, she stood with
the firm foot and the straight ankle of a marble statue; her arms, well
rounded, hung easily from her full, wide shoulders; while her head,
slightly thrown back, was balanced on her neck with an air at once
dignified and easy. Her dress well suited the character of her figure:
it was entirely of black, covered with a profusion of deep lace,--the
jupe looped up in Andalusian fashion to display the leg, whose symmetry
was perfect. Even her costume, however, had something about it too
theatrical for my taste; but there was a stamp of firmness, _fierte_
even, in her carriage and her attitude, that at once showed hers was
no vulgar desire of being remarkable, but the womanly consciousness of
being dressed as became her. She suddenly turned her head around, and
we both exclaimed in the same breath, "How lovely!" Her features were of
that brilliant character only seen in Southern blood: eyes large, black,
and lustrous, fringed with lashes that threw their shadow on the very
cheek; full lips, curled with an air of almost saucy expression; while
the rich olive tint of her transparent skin was scarce colored with the
pink flush of exercise, and harmonized perfectly with the proud repose
of her countenance.

"She must be Spanish,--that's certain," said Duchesne. "No one ever saw
such an instep come from this side the Pyrenees; and those eyes have got
their look of sleepy wickedness from Moorish blood. But here comes one
will tell us all about her."

This was the Baron de Treve,--a withered-looking, dried-up old man,
rouged to the eyes, and dressed in the extravagance of the last fashion;
the high collar of his coat rising nearly to the back of his head, as
his deep cravat in front entirely concealed his mouth, and formed a kind
of barrier around his features.

As Duchesne addressed him, he stopped short, and assuming an attitude
of great intended grace, raised his glass slowly to his