irst, second, or third sight of
Angelique des Meloises. She was indeed a fair girl to look upon,--tall,
and fashioned in nature's most voluptuous mould, perfect in the symmetry
of every part, with an ease and beauty of movement not suggestive of
spiritual graces, like Amelie's, but of terrestrial witcheries, like
those great women of old who drew down the very gods from Olympus, and
who in all ages have incited men to the noblest deeds, or tempted them
to the greatest crimes.

She was beautiful of that rare type of beauty which is only reproduced
once or twice in a century to realize the dreams of a Titian or a
Giorgione. Her complexion was clear and radiant, as of a descendant of
the Sun God. Her bright hair, if its golden ripples were shaken out,
would reach to her knees. Her face was worthy of immortality by the
pencil of a Titian. Her dark eyes drew with a magnetism which attracted
men, in spite of themselves, whithersoever she would lead them. They
were never so dangerous as when, in apparent repose, they sheathed their
fascination for a moment, and suddenly shot a backward glance, like a
Parthian arrow, from under their long eyelashes, that left a wound to be
sighed over for many a day.

The spoiled and petted child of the brave, careless Renaud d'Avesne des
Meloises, of an ancient family in the Nivernois, Angelique grew up
a motherless girl, clever above most of her companions, conscious of
superior charms, always admired and flattered, and, since she left the
Convent, worshipped as the idol of the gay gallants of the city, and the
despair and envy of her own sex. She was a born sovereign of men, and
she felt it. It was her divine right to be preferred. She trod the earth
with dainty feet, and a step aspiring as that of the fair Louise de
La Valliere when she danced in the royal ballet in the forest of
Fontainebleau and stole a king's heart by the flashes of her pretty
feet. Angelique had been indulged by her father in every caprice, and in
the gay world inhaled the incense of adulation until she regarded it as
her right, and resented passionately when it was withheld.

She was not by nature bad, although vain, selfish, and aspiring. Her
footstool was the hearts of men, and upon it she set hard her beautiful
feet, indifferent to the anguish caused by her capricious tyranny. She
was cold and calculating under the warm passions of a voluptuous nature.
Although many might believe they had won the favor, none felt