At last she was to see Lance's wife, the woman whom the laws of man, of society, and the world had placed in her place, given her position, her name, her love—the woman whom a mere legal quibble had put in her place.
The hours seemed long until Tuesday evening came. It struck her that if Lady Chandos were there Lord Chandos would be there too; he would see her at last in the regal position her own genius had won for herself; a position that seemed to her a thousand times grander than the one derived from the mere accident of birth. He would see then the world's estimation of the woman he had forsaken. She was pleased, yet half frightened, to know that at last she and her rival would meet face to face.
She had so noble a soul that vanity was not among her faults, but on this evening she was more than usually particular. Never had the matchless beauty of the great actress shown to greater advantage. She wore a dress of faint cream-colored brocade, half hidden in fine, costly lace, in the beautiful waves of her hair a large, cream-colored rose nestled, and with that she wore a set of diamonds a princess might have envied. The superb beauty, the half stately, half-languid grace, the southern eyes, the full, sweet lips, the wondrous beauty of her white neck and arms, the inexpressible charm of her attitudes, the play of her superb features—all made her marvelous to look upon. A dainty, delicate perfume came from the folds of her dress. She had a richly jeweled fan, made from the delicate amber plumage of some rare tropical bird; the radiance and light of her beauty would have made a whole room bright. She reached Madame de Chandalle's rather late. She gave one hasty glance round the superb reception-room as she passed to where madame was receiving her guests, but the dark, handsome head and face of Lord Chandos were nowhere to be seen.
Madame overwhelmed her with civilities, and Leone soon found herself the center of an admiring crowd. The assembly was a most brilliant one; there were princes of the blood, royal dukes, marshals of France, peers of England, men of highest note in the land; to each and all the radiant, beautiful artist was the center of all attraction.
A royal duke was bending over her chair, one of the noblest marshals of France, with the young Marquis of Tyrol to assist him, was trying to entertain her. They were lavishing compliments upon her.
Suddenly she saw some slight stir in the groups, the French marshal murmured: "Comme elle est belle!" and, looking up, she saw a fair, regal woman bowing to Madame de Chandalle—a woman whose fair, tranquil loveliness was like moonlight on a summer's lake. Leone was charmed by her. The graceful figure was shown to the best advantage by the dress of rich white silk; she wore a superb suit of opals, whose hundred tints gleamed and glistened as she moved.
"The very queen of blondes," she overheard one gentleman say to another, her eyes riveted by the fair, tranquil loveliness of this beautiful woman, whose dress was trimmed with white water-lilies, who wore a water-lily in her hair and one on her white breast.
Leone watched her intently. Watching her was like reading a sweet, half-sad poem, or listening to sweet, half-sad music—every movement was full of sweet harmony. Leone watched this beautiful woman for some time; every one appeared to know her; she was evidently a leader of fashion; still she had no idea who she was. She expected, she did not know why, to see Lord and Lady Chandos enter together.
The French marshal was the first to speak.
"You admire La Reine des Blondes, madame?" he said. "Ah, Heaven, how we should rave in Paris over so fair a lady. Do you know who she is?"