“What were you looking at?”
“I was looking yonder for the forest of the Maiden and the lodge at the gate.”
“That is the Porte Dauphine and the Chinese Pavilion.”
“I did not know it. I imagined that we were at home.”
I had thought this procession that our apartment commanded would have attracted and captivated the love of elegance latent in every woman, that Paris would not have failed to awaken it in her; and behold, the nook where she was born, the country of her love, was sufficient for her. She did not see beyond it; or rather she saw it everywhere.
“You will come to love it,” I continued, with a gesture toward the city. “At your age Paris is irresistible, above all when you will be one of its queens.”
“Oh, one of its queens? You are laughing at me.”
At that moment, attentive and interested, her blond hair caressed by a ray of sunlight, she was at the same time so sensible and so fascinating that I felt I could hope everything for her.
“I am not joking,” I said. “You do not know my power.”
“Do you dare say that?”