ces this effect--the
background behind it, the objects that surround it. Sometimes it is
that the tone of the mind at the moment gives the peculiar expression
which harmonizes best with the lines of the features and the
colouring of the complexion, and which is in perfect accord with all
those expectations which fine, indistinct, but sweet associations
produce in our mind from every particular style of beauty that we
see. Associations are, in fact, the bees of the imagination, and,
wandering through all nature, may be said to distil honey from every
fair object on which they light. Why does a rich and warm complexion,
and a glowing cheek, call up instantly in our mind the idea of joyous
health and pleasant-heartedness? Less because we have been
accustomed to see that complexion attended by such qualities than
because it connects itself with the idea of summer, gay summer and
all its fruits and flowers, and merry sports and light amusements,
and a thousand memories of happy days, and thousands upon thousands
still of other things of which we have no consciousness, but which are
present to sensation though not to thought, all the while that we are
gazing upon a ruddy cheek, and thinking that the pleasure is derived
from the white and red alone.
When the expression is perfectly suited to the style of beauty, it is
natural to suppose that it will add to the charm; but there is a case
where the cause of the increase is not so easily discovered--I mean
when the mind gives to the countenance a temporary-expression totally
opposed to the style of beauty itself. Yet this is sometimes the
case: for how often do we see high and majestic features soften into
playful smiles, and seem to gain another grace. In the lady we have
mentioned, the whole style of the countenance and of the form gave
the idea of joyous gaiety, of happy, nay, exuberant life and
cheerfulness; but the expression was now all sad; and from the
contrast--which produced deeper associations than perfect harmony
would have called forth--her beauty itself was heightened. It was
like some gay and splendid scene by moonlight.
She had remained in this meditating attitude for some time, when the
door quietly opened, and a personage entered the room, of whom we
must say a few words, though he is not destined to play any very
prominent part in our tale. Monsieur Plessis was a Frenchman, a
soi-disant Protestant. One thing, at all events, is certain, that
his father had been so, and had been expelled from F