"Admirable!" exclaimed Madeleine, "this gown is as fresh and beautiful as when it was new. Now I must have some white silk stockings to match these Cendrillon slippers I found in this wardrobe where you have buried your arms, Sophie, as they say of warriors who do not go to battle any more."
"But, my dear Madeleine," said Sophie, "I—"
"There are no 'buts,'" said the marquise, impatiently. "I wish and expect, when your husband enters here, he will think he has gone back five years."
In spite of a feeble resistance, Sophie Dutertre was docile and obedient to the advice and pretty attentions of her friend. Soon, half recumbent on an easy chair, in a languishing attitude, she consented that the marquise should give the finishing touch to the living picture. Finally Madeleine arranged a few curls of the rich brown hair around the neck of dazzling whiteness, lifted the sleeves so as to show the dimpled elbows, opened somewhat the neck of the gown, notwithstanding the chaste scruples of Sophie, and draped the skirt with provoking premeditation, so as to reveal the neatest ankle and prettiest little foot in the world.
It must be said that Sophie was charming,—emotion, hope, expectation, and a vague disquietude, colouring her sweet and attractive face, animated her appearance, and gave a bewitching expression to her features.
Antonine, struck with the wonderful metamorphosis, exclaimed, innocently, clapping her little hands:
"Why, Sophie, I did not know you were as pretty as that!"
"Nor did Sophie know it," replied Madeleine, shrugging her shoulders, "I have exhumed so many attractions."
Just then Madame Dutertre's servant, having knocked at the door, entered, and said to her mistress:
"Monsieur desires to speak to madame. He is in the shop, and wishes to know if madame is at home."