He woke up the majestic old house, drove away mourning and the gloom that was piled in all the corners, the particles of sadness that accumulate in old dwellings; he seemed to make the facets of the mirrors glisten and give new life to the delightful panel paintings on the walls, which had been scarce visible for a hundred years.
“Are you fond of painting, Monsieur?”
“Fond of it, Mademoiselle? Oh, I should think so!”
The truth was that he knew absolutely nothing about it, but he had a stock of words and phrases ready for use on that subject as on all others, and while the servants were arranging the card tables he made the paintings on the well-preserved Louis XIII walls the pretext for a quiet talk very near to the young girl.
Of the two, Rosalie knew much the more about art. Having lived always in an atmosphere of cultivation and good taste, the sight of a fine bit of sculpture or a great painting thrilled her with a special vibratory emotion which she felt rather than expressed, because of her reserved character and because the false emotions in the world are apt to keep down the real ones. At sight of them a superficial observer, however, noting the eloquent assurance with which the lawyer talked and the wide professional gestures he used, as well as the rapt attention of Rosalie, might have taken him for some great master giving a lesson to a pupil.
“Mamma, can we go into your room? I want to show Monsieur Roumestan the hunting panel.”
At the whist table Mme. Le Quesnoy gave a quick inquiring glance at him whom she always called, with a peculiar tone of renunciation and humility in her voice, “Monsieur Le Quesnoy,” and, receiving an affirmative nod from him which meant that the thing was in order, gave the desired permission.
They crossed a passage lined with books and found themselves in the old people’s chamber, an immense room as majestic and antique as the drawing-room. The panel was above a small door beautifully carved.
“It is too dark to see it well,” said Rosalie.
As she spoke she held up a double candlestick she had taken from a card table, and with her arm raised, her graceful figure in fine relief, she threw the light upon the picture which showed Diana, the crescent on her brow, among her huntress maidens in the landscape of a pagan Paradise. But at this gesture of a Greek torch-bearer the light from the double candles fell upon her own head with its simple coiffure and sparkled in her clear eyes with their high-bred smile and on the virginal curves of her slender yet stately bust. She seemed more of a Diana than the pictured goddess herself. Roumestan looked at her; carried away by her charm of youthful innocence and candid chastity, he forgot who she was and what his purpose had been in coming, yes, all his dreams of fortune and ambition! He felt an insane desire to clasp this supple form in his arms, to shower kisses on her fine hair, the delicate fragrance of which intoxicated him, to carry off this enchanting being to be the safeguard and joy of his whole life; and something told him that if he attempted it she would permit it, and that she was his, his entirely, conquered, vanquished at the first sight.