In this manner we at length arrived at the immense and magnificent hall divided into two galleries by a beautiful rotunda. This hall was called the library, although only a portion of it was consecrated to books. The other half was a sort of museum for pictures and works of art. The rotunda contained a fountain surrounded by flowers. Madame d’Ionis called my attention to this valuable monument, that had recently been removed from the gardens and placed here to preserve it from accident, the fall of a large branch on a stormy night having slightly injured it.
It was a rock of white marble on which marine monsters were intertwined, and above them, on the most elevated portion, a naiad, regarded as a chef-d’œuvre was gracefully seated. This group was thought to be the work of Jean Goujon or of one of his best pupils.
The nymph, instead of being nude, was chastely draped; a circumstance which caused it to be thought that it was the portrait of a modest lady who had not been willing to pose in the simple apparel of a goddess, or permit the artist to interpret her elegant figure in order to exhibit it to the gaze of a profane public. But these draperies, from which the upper part of the bust and arms as far as the shoulders alone were released did not prevent one from appreciating the ensemble of this extraordinary type which characterizes the statuary of the renaissance, those slight proportions, that roundness combined with slenderness, that delicacy allied to strength, that indefinable something more beautiful than nature, which at first surprises us like a dream, and which little by little captivates the most enthusiastic region of the mind. One knows not if these beauties were conceived for the senses, but they do not affect them. They seem to owe their origin to a Divinity in some Eden, or on some Mount Ida, from which they have but descended against their will, to mingle in the realities of earth. Such is the famous Diana of Goujon, majestic, almost terrifying in aspect, despite the serene sweetness of its lineaments, exquisite and monumental, informed with physical vigor and yet calm as intellectual force.
I had as yet seen nothing of that national statuary, that we have perhaps never sufficiently appreciated, and which places the France of that period on a level with the Italy of Michael Angelo. I did not at first comprehend what I beheld. I was besides ill-disposed towards it, while comparing this extraordinary type with the plump and dainty beauty of Madame d’Ionis, a true Louis XV. specimen, ever smiling and more attractive, on account of her vitality, than through any grandeur of the intellect.
“This is more beautiful than true, n’est-ce pas?” said she calling my attention to the long arms and serpentine body of the naiad.
“I don’t think so,” I replied while regarding Madame d’Ionis with involuntary ardor.
She did not appear to pay the least attention.
“Let us stop here,” said she, “the air is so cool and refreshing. If you wish, we will speak of business. Zéphyrine, my dear, you may leave us.”
I was at last alone with her! Two or three times during the past hour, the beautiful glance of her eye, unaffectedly vivacious and loving, had given me a vertigo, and I had thought were Zéphyrine not here I would throw myself at her feet.
But hardly had she left us than I felt myself chained by a sentiment of respect and fear, and at once began to discuss the law suit with a desperate perspicacity.