“Yes, dear, for I may be able to assist you if you do not understand it.”
Vivienne ran her eyes quickly over the page. The writing was in a large, round hand, and although the paper was discoloured and the ink faded, each word was easily deciphered. As Vivienne read, the old nurse watched her attentively.
“Have you come to the part where it tells how to open and close the dungeon door?”
“Yes,” cried Vivienne. “What wonderful mechanism! Who could have invented it? Oh, Clarine, it makes my blood run cold to think of that fearful dungeon shut out from the world by such demoniac ingenuity.”
“But the Hall of Mirrors is considered the most beautiful room in the castle,” said Clarine.
“And so it is. Julien and I used to love to play there, for as we ran about the room, or danced, we could see ourselves in the mirrors, and it always seemed as though we had many visitors who were joining in our games. We were too young to think that any of those mirrors were hinged, and that when opened they would disclose a dungeon door behind them. Heaven grant that I may never have cause to open that door!”
“Never, unless in great extremity or to save human life,” said Clarine, solemnly. “Those were your father’s words to me, and I have never forgotten them. Now, darling, you must forget everything that will call up unpleasant memories, and be joyous and happy. I will go with you to your room and help you put on that beautiful dress which your brother Pascal gave you. There will be pretty girls here to-night, but none will be so beautiful as my little Viva.”
What the old nurse had said was surely realised. There is no woman whose natural beauty is so great that it cannot be enhanced by the aid of art. Poets and painters rave over peasant girls and fisher maidens, and write about and paint them. Near the close of the poem, however, the poet makes a lady of his country or seaside heroine—clothes her in costly raiment and decks her with jewels. In poetry, as in music, there must be a crescendo. Again, the artist may marry an ideal face and form, but when she has become his, he selects delicate tints and filmy garments with which to clothe her, and his artistic sense inevitably leads him to the conclusion that the golden or raven-black hair, parted in the middle, with modest simplicity, should be replaced by the latest coiffure.
Beneath the dexterous hands of Clarine, who had dressed many a bride, Vivienne was transformed, and when the young girl looked in the mirror she started back in honest astonishment at the sight of her reflection.
“Viva,” cried the old nurse, “you are perfect, and if I were Count Mont d’Oro I would fall down and worship you.”