Book account

"He is handsome as an angel," said the marquise in an under tone to
Felicite.
Standing between the sofa and the two ladies, Calyste heard the words
confusedly. He seated himself in an arm-chair and looked furtively
toward the marquise. In the soft half-light he saw, reclining on a
divan, as if a sculptor had placed it there, a white and serpentine
shape which thrilled him. Without being aware of it, Felicite had done
her friend a service; the marquise was much superior to the
unflattered portrait Camille had drawn of her the night before. Was it
to do honor to the guest that Beatrix had wound into her hair those
tufts of blue-bells that gave value to the pale tints of her creped
curls, so arranged as to fall around her face and play upon the
cheeks? The circle of her eyes, which showed fatigue, was of the
purest mother-of-pearl, her skin was as dazzling as the eyes, and
beneath its whiteness, delicate as the satiny lining of an egg, life
abounded in the beautiful blue veins. The delicacy of the features was
extreme; the forehead seemed diaphanous.


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