“Well,” continued Amalia, seeing that her audience was listening attentively, “Gimenez, and the little Marquis of Cañahejas, and Monsieur Anatole were there, and they were all talking about a paragraph in Figaro, alluding to a scandal caused at one of the most fashionable watering places in France, or all Europe, by the insane passion of a Spanish grandee for a Swedish lady——”
“Only the initials of the names were given,” added Lola; “but it was as clear as daylight. And to make it more clear it said, ‘This worthy grandson of the Count of Almaviva spends a fortune in flowers!’”
A chorus of laughter broke from the circle. Lola had a way of saying things with a certain lisp and a movement of the eyelids that greatly added to their piquancy.
“And she? How does she receive his attentions?” asked Pilar.
“She?” replied Lola. “Oh, every night, on receiving the bouquet, she answers invariably: ‘Dhanks, tuke, you are too amiaple!’”
They laughed more loudly than before. Even the countess smiled, holding her fan before her face for the sake of propriety.
“Hist!” said Luisa Natal, “there she comes.”
“The Swede!” exclaimed Pilar.
They all turned round, greatly excited. The door of the Ladies’ Parlor opened slowly, an old man, dressed with elegant simplicity, with white side-whiskers, the rest of his face being smoothly shaven, stood in a courtly attitude at the threshold of the door, while a tall and graceful woman passed into the room; her classic beauty was set off by her gown of black silk, close-fitting and sparkling with jet; the hat of tulle, trimmed with golden wheat-ears, rested on her brow like a diadem; her walk was noble and queenly. Without deigning to salute any one, she went straight to the piano and, seating herself before it, proceeded to play a mazourka of Chopin’s in a masterly manner. Her attitude served to display to advantage the stately grace of her figure—the long and rounded arms, the hips, the shoulder-blades, which at every movement of her white hands defined themselves clearly through the tight-fitting bodice.
“Is it not true,” said Pilar in a low voice to Luisa Natal, “that if Lucía Miranda were to dress like her, she would resemble her somewhat in her figure?”