There was a short silence, and Hélène gazed round at the luxury of the apartment, with its curtains and chairs in black and gold, glittering like constellations. Flowers decorated mantel-shelf, piano, and tables alike, and the clear light streamed through the windows from the garden, in which could be seen the leafless trees and bare soil. The room had almost a hot-house temperature; in the fireplace one large log was glowing with intense heat. After another glance Hélène recognized that the gaudy colors had a happy effect. Madame Deberle’s hair was inky-black, and her skin of a milky whiteness. She was short, plump, slow in her movements, and withal graceful. Amidst all the golden decorations, her white face assumed a vermeil tint under her heavy, sombre tresses. Hélène really admired her.
“Convulsions are so terrible,” broke in Madame Deberle. “My Lucien had them when a mere baby. How uneasy you must have been, madame! However, the dear little thing appears to be quite well now.”
As she drawled out these words she kept her eyes on Hélène, whose superb beauty amazed and delighted her. Never had she seen a woman with so queenly an air in the black garments which draped the widow’s commanding figure. Her admiration found vent in an involuntary smile, while she exchanged glances with Mademoiselle Aurelie. Their admiration was so ingenuously and charmingly expressed, that a faint smile also rippled over Hélène’s face.
Then Madame Deberle stretched herself on the sofa. “You were not at the first night at the Vaudeville yesterday, madame?” she asked, as she played with the fan that hung from her waist.
“I never go to the theatre,” was Hélène’s reply.
“Oh! little Noëmi was simply marvellous! Her death scene is so realistic! She clutches her bosom like this, throws back her head, and her face turns green. Oh! the effect is prodigious.”
Thereupon she entered into a minute criticism of the actress’s playing, which she upheld against the world; and then she passed to the other topics of the day—a fine art exhibition, at which she had seen some most remarkable paintings; a stupid novel about which too much fuss was being made; a society intrigue which she spoke of to Mademoiselle Aurelie in veiled language. And so she went on from one subject to another, without wearying, her tongue ever ready, as though this social atmosphere were peculiarly her own. Hélène, a stranger to such society, was content to listen, merely interjecting a remark or brief reply every now and then.
At last the door was again thrown open and the footman announced: “Madame de Chermette! Madame Tissot!”
Two ladies entered, magnificently dressed. Madame Deberle rose eagerly to meet them, and the train of her black silk gown, heavily decked with trimmings, trailed so far behind her that she had to kick it out of her way whenever she happened to turn round. A confused babel of greetings in shrill voices arose.
“Oh! how kind of you! I declare I never see you!”