IN A CELLAR

I.

It was the day of Madame de St. Cyr's dinner, an event I never missed;
for, the mistress of a mansion in the Faubourg St. Germain, there still
lingered about her the exquisite grace and good-breeding peculiar to the
old _regime_, that insensibly communicates itself to the guests till
they move in an atmosphere of ease that constitutes the charm of home.
One was always sure of meeting desirable and well-assorted people here,
and a _contre-temps_ was impossible. Moreover, the house was not at the
command of all; and Madame de St. Cyr, with the daring strength which,
when found in a woman at all, should, to be endurable, be combined with
a sweet but firm restraint, rode rough-shod over the _parvenus_ of the
Empire, and was resolute enough to insulate herself even among the old
_noblesse_, who, as all the world knows, insulate themselves from the
rest of France. There were rare qualities in this woman, and were I to
have selected one who with an even hand should carry a snuffy candle
through a magazine of powder, my choice would have devolved upon her;
and she would have done it.

I often looked, and not unsuccessfully, to discern what heritage her
daughter had in these little affairs. Indeed, to one like myself
Delphine presented the worthier study. She wanted the airy charm of
manner, the suavity and tenderness of her mother,--a deficiency easily
to be pardoned in one of such delicate and extraordinary beauty. And
perhaps her face was the truest index of her mind; not that it ever
transparently displayed a genuine emotion,--Delphine was too well-bred
for that,--but the outline of her features had a keen, regular
precision, as if cut in a gem. Her exquisite color seldom varied, her
eyes were like blue steel, she was statue-like and stony. But had one
paused there, pronouncing her hard and impassive, he had committed an
error. She had no great capability for passion, but she was not to be
deceived; one metallic flash of her eye would cut like a sword through
the whole mesh of entanglements with which you had surrounded her; and
frequently, when alone with her, you perceived cool recesses in her
nature, sparkling and pleasant, which jealously guarded themselves from
a nearer approach. She was infinitely _spirituelle_; compared to her,
Madame herself was heavy.

At the first I had seen that Delphine must be the wife of a diplomate.
What diplomate? For a time asking myself the question seriously,