“Bah!” murmured Luisa Natal, “the Mirandita has not an atom of chic.”
From the group of Englishwomen now broke forth the energetic hissing sound which in every language signifies “Silence! hold your tongues and listen, or at least permit others to listen.” The Spanish women touched one another with their elbows and imperturbably went on with their whispering.
“Do you see that man?” said Lola Amézega.
“Who? who? who?” They all asked in chorus.
“Who do you suppose? Albares. There, there at the window. Take care. Don’t let him see that you are observing him.”
Looking in at the window overlooking the roof of the Casino was to be seen, in effect, a youthful, almost boyish face defined against the porcelain-like whiteness of the necktie, among whose folds rested one of those agates called “cat’s eyes,” on which the caprice of fashion has of late bestowed so exaggerated a value. A morning-suit of a soft, exquisite shade of gray, a fine beaver hat, a gardenia in the button-hole, and chamois gloves of a rather bright color—such were the details of the costume of the inquisitive young man who was thus exploring with his gaze the Salle des Dames. He presented a strange mixture of weakness and strength; with an under-sized frame, he had the muscles of a Hercules. Gymnastic exercises, fencing, riding, and hunting had apparently hardened a constitution, which nature had made weakly, almost sickly. He was short of stature, his limbs were delicate as a woman’s, but the muscles were of steel. That this was the case was apparent from the manner in which his garments hung upon him; from a certain virile turn of the knees and the shoulders; in addition to this he had that air of haughty superiority which wealth, birth, and the habit of command, united, bestow.
But if the duke had expected to be rewarded for his indiscretion, he was doomed to disappointment; for the Swede, after she had played with perfect self-possession and consummate skill some half-dozen mazourkas, arose with no less majesty than she had displayed on her entrance to the room, and without looking to the right or left walked straight toward the door. This opened as if by magic, and the diplomat with the white side-whiskers presented himself, grave and courteous as before, and offered her his arm. It was the exit of a queen, très réussie, as the group of Frenchwomen said among themselves.
“One would think she was the Princess Micomicona,” said Lola Amézega, who had spent no less than two hours before the looking-glass, that morning, practicing the regal walk of the Swede.
“What an air!” said Luisa Natal. “No, it cannot be denied that she is a handsome woman. What a figure! and what hands! Have you noticed them?”
“What a disappointment for Albares!” exclaimed Amalia; “she did not even know he was there.”