The quiet voice seemed now to be chanting some profane litany.
“Beauty of Europe! Inconstant Beauty! Star of Lyons! Gloire de Dijon! Firefly! Grace Darling! Snowball! Golden Dream! Miniature! Surprise! Pearl of the Gardens! Streaky Pearl! Perfection of Pleasure! ...”
The young man’s face brightened with a smile; but he stood where he was.
“Fanchette, let us go into the drawing-room,” said the voice. “There are still some more.”
After a pause the names began again. But the women’s names no longer reached Jean’s ears so sharp and clear; they were accompanied by short descriptions of toilettes, rather like the accounts in fashion papers, and then by flattering appreciations addressed indiscriminately to princesses, great ladies, or beauties of the people.
“The Duchess of Morny, in pale pink, backed with silver! Viscountess Folkestone, in bright pink with salmon lights! Mademoiselle Thérèse Levet, in cherry pink! Mademoiselle Eugénie Verdier, in bright pink with white lights, and Mademoiselle Marie Perrin, in beautiful pale silvery pink!”
After this gracious group of bright robed young women, the speaker’s enthusiasm waxed warmer.
“Mademoiselle Adelina Viviand-Morel, your hue is indefinable. Your apricot, shading to canary, turns to straw yellow streaked with flesh colour! Anne-Marie de Montravel, you are certainly tiny, but your simple toilette is of the purest white. Mademoiselle Augustine Guinoiseau, your whiteness, satiny and faintly pink fascinates me. You are tall and well made, the flower of all France! Innocence Pirola, I love your slim grace and your rosy tint. Madame Ernest Calvat, there is a sweet fullness about you and your dress is a charming vivid China pink. Yet I prefer that tender rose hue, suffused with white, of the Baroness Rothschild, tall and very lovely, but without scent.”
Jean stifled a laugh when, with a brusque change of tone, the voice commanded:
“Now we must make haste, Fanchette. My nephew will be back soon.”