Pauline’s quick fingers instantly removed the handkerchief, and raising her eyes, she found that she was placed exactly before a tall Venetian mirror, which offered her a complete portrait of herself, sitting in an immense arm-chair of green velvet, and disguised in the costume of a Languedoc paysanne. The large capote, or hood, which she had worn, had been thrust back by the Norman, in order to blindfold her eyes, and her dark hair, all dishevelled, was hanging about her face in glossy confusion. The red serge jupe of Louise had acquired in the passages of the Bastille no inconsiderable portion of dust; and near the knee on which she had fallen at the foot of the glacis, it was stained with mire, as well as slightly torn. In addition to all this, appeared a large rent at the side, occasioned by the efforts of Philip the woodman to disengage it from the staple on which it had caught; and the black bodice had been broadly marked with green mould, in pressing against the wall while the guards passed so near to her.
Her face also was deathly pale, with all the alarm, agitation, and fatigue she had undergone; so that no person could be more different from the elegant and blooming Pauline de Beaumont than the figure which that mirror reflected. Pauline almost started when she beheld herself; but quickly recovering from her surprise, she cast her eyes round the room, which was furnished in the most splendid and costly manner, and filled with a thousand objects of curiosity or luxury, procured from all the quarters of the globe.
Her attention, however, rested not upon any of these. Within a few paces of the chair in which she sat, stood a tall elegant man, near that period of life called the middle age, but certainly rather below than above the point to which the term is generally applied. He was splendidly dressed, according to the custom of the day; and the neat trimming of his beard and mustaches, the regular arrangement of his dark flowing hair, and the scrupulous harmony and symmetry of every part of his apparel, contradicted the thoughtful, dignified expression of his eyes, which seemed occupied with much higher thoughts. Vandyke has transmitted to us many such a physiognomy, and many such a dress; but few of his costumes are more splendid, or his countenances more dignified, than was that of the stranger who stood beside Mademoiselle de Beaumont.
He paused for a moment, giving her time to make what examination she liked of every thing in the apartment; and as her eye glanced to himself, demanded with a smile, “Well, Mademoiselle de Beaumont, do you recollect me?”
“Not in the least,” replied Pauline: “I think, Sir, that we can never have seen each other before.”
“Yes, we have,” answered her companion, “but it was at a distance. However, now look in that glass, and tell me—Do you recollect yourself?”
“Hardly!” replied Pauline, with a blush, “hardly, indeed!”
“Well then, fair lady, I think that you will no longer demand my reasons for attributing to you dangerous enterprises, and actions, as you say, deserving imprisonment; but to put an end to your doubts at once, look at that order, where, I think, you will find yourself somewhat accurately described.” And he handed to Pauline a small piece of parchment, beginning with the words of serious import ‘De par le roy,’ and going on to order the arrest of the Demoiselle Pauline, daughter of the late Marquis de Beaumont, and of the Dame Anne de la Hautière; with all those good set terms and particulars, which left no room for mistake or quibble, even if it had been examined by the eyes of the sharpest lawyer of the Cour des Aides.
“What say you now, Mademoiselle de Beaumont?” demanded her companion, seeing her plunged in embarrassment and surprise.
“I have nothing to say, Sir,” replied Pauline, “but that I must submit. However, I trust that, in common humanity, I shall be allowed to see my mother, either when I am in prison, or before I am conveyed thither.”