“Yes, Madame; but—but—”
“You are too fond of old associations to part from them easily,” said she, laughing. “Come here, Stephanie, and see a miracle of manhood, that could resist all the clinquant of a hussar for the simple costume of the É cole Militaire. Monsieur de Custine, this is my young friend of whom I told you the other day.”
The gentleman, the same who had so kindly noticed me, bowed politely.
“And now I must leave you together, for I see they are teasing poor Madame Lefebvre.” And with a smile she passed on into a small boudoir, from which the sounds of merry laughter were proceeding.
“You don't know any one here?” said Monsieur de Custine, as he motioned me to a place beside him on a sofa. “Nor is there any very remarkable person here to point out to you this evening. The First Consul's levée absorbs all the celebrities; but by and by they will drop in to pay their respects, and you 'll see them all. The handsome woman yonder with her fan before her is Madame Beauharnais Lavalette, and the good-looking young fellow in the staff uniform is Monsieur de Melcy, a stepson of General Rapp.”
“And the large handsome man with the embroidered coat who passed through so hurriedly?”
“Yes, he is somebody,—that's Decrès, the Ministre de la Marine; he is gone to the levee. And there, next the door, with his eyes cast down and his hands folded, that is the Abbé Maynal, one of the most 'spirituel' men of the day. But I suppose you 'd much rather look at the beauties of the Court than hear long stories about literature and politics. And there is the gem of loveliness among them.”
I turned my eyes as he spoke, and close beside me, engaged in an eager conversation with an old lady, stood a young and most beautiful girl. Her long hair, through which, in the then mode, violets were wreathed and interwoven, descended in rich masses of curl over a neck white as marble. The corsage of her dress, which, in imitation of Greek costume, was made low, displayed her well-rounded shoulders to the greatest advantage; and though rather below than above the middle size, there was a dignity and grace in the air of her figure, and a certain elegance about her slightest movements, that was most fascinating.
“And the 'Rose de Provence,'—how is she this evening?” said my companion, rising suddenly, and presenting himself with a smile before her.
“Ah! you here. Monsieur de Custine? we thought you had been at Nancy.”