Diodati, the flower whose tints of black and rose you
praised so warmly, you can fancy how this woman could be elegant though
remote from the social world, natural in expression, fastidious in
all things which became part of herself,--in short, like the heath of
mingled colors. Her body had the freshness we admire in the unfolding
leaf; her spirit the clear conciseness of the aboriginal mind; she was a
child by feeling, grave through suffering, the mistress of a household,
yet a maiden too. Therefore she charmed artlessly and unconsciously,
by her way of sitting down or rising, of throwing in a word or keeping
silence. Though habitually collected, watchful as the sentinel on
whom the safety of others depends and who looks for danger, there were
moments when smiles would wreathe her lips and betray the happy nature
buried beneath the saddened bearing that was the outcome of her life.
Her gift of attraction was mysterious. Instead of inspiring the gallant
attentions which other women seek, she made men dream, letting them see
her virginal nature of pure flame, her celestial visions, as we see the
azure heavens through rifts in the clouds. This involuntary revelation
of her being made others thoughtful. The rarity of her gestures, above
all, the rarity of her glances--for, excepting her children, she seldom
looked at any one--gave a strange solemnity to all she said and did when
her words or actions seemed to her to compromise her dignity.

On this particular morning Madame de Mortsauf wore a rose-colored gown
patterned in tiny stripes, a collar with a wide hem, a black belt, and
little boots of the same hue. Her hair was simply twisted round her
head, and held in place by a tortoise-shell comb. Such, my dear Natalie,
is the imperfect sketch I promised you. But the constant emanation of
her soul upon her family, that nurturing essence shed in floods around
her as the sun emits its light, her inward nature, her cheerfulness on
days serene, her resignation on stormy ones,--all those variations of
expression by which character is displayed depend, like the effects
in the sky, on unexpected and fugitive circumstances, which have no
connection with each other except the background against which they
rest, though all are necessarily mingled with the events of this
history,--truly a household epic, as great to the eyes of a wise man as
a tragedy to the eyes of the crowd, an epic in which you will feel an
interest, not only for the