d several elegant young men, such as Paul de Manerville and
the Vicomte de Portenduere. Celestine was pouring out tea when the
general-secretary entered. Her dress that evening was very becoming;
she wore a black velvet robe without ornament of any kind, a black gauze
scarf, her hair smoothly bound about her head and raised in a heavy
braided mass, with long curls a l'Anglaise falling on either side of her
face. The charms which particularly distinguished this woman were the
Italian ease of her artistic nature, her ready comprehension, and the
grace with which she welcomed and promoted the least appearance of a
wish on the part of others. Nature had given her an elegant, slender
figure, which could sway lightly at a word, black eyes of oriental
shape, able, like those of the Chinese women, to see out of their
corners. She well knew how to manage a soft, insinuating voice, which
threw a tender charm into every word, even such as she merely chanced
to utter; her feet were like those we see in portraits where the painter
boldly lies and flatters his sitter in the only way which does not
compromise anatomy. Her complexion, a little yellow by day, like that
of most brunettes, was dazzling at night under the wax candles, which
brought out the brilliancy of her black hair and eyes. Her slender and
well-defined outlines reminded an artist of the Venus of the Middle Ages
rendered by Jean Goujon, the illustrious sculptor of Diane de Poitiers.

Des Lupeaulx stopped in the doorway, and leaned against the woodwork.
This ferret of ideas did not deny himself the pleasure of spying upon
sentiment, and this woman interested him more than any of the others to
whom he had attached himself. Des Lupeaulx had reached an age when men
assert pretensions in regard to women. The first white hairs lead to
the latest passions, all the more violent because they are astride of
vanishing powers and dawning weakness. The age of forty is the age
of folly,--an age when man wants to be loved for himself; whereas at
twenty-five life is so full that he has no wants. At twenty-five he
overflows with vigor and wastes it with impunity, but at forty he learns
that to use it in that way is to abuse it. The thoughts that came into
des Lupeaulx's mind at this moment were melancholy ones. The nerves of
the old beau relaxed; the agreeable smile, which served as a mask and
made the character of his countenance, faded; the real man appeared, and
he was horrible. Rabou