That evening, by one of those strokes of luck which come to pretty women, Valerie was charmingly dressed. Her white bosom gleamed under a lace tucker of rusty white, which showed off the satin texture of her beautiful shoulders—for Parisian women, Heaven knows how, have some way of preserving their fine flesh and remaining slender. She wore a black velvet gown that looked as if it might at any moment slip off her shoulders, and her hair was dressed with lace and drooping flowers. Her arms, not fat but dimpled, were graced by deep ruffles to her sleeves. She was like a luscious fruit coquettishly served in a handsome dish, and making the knife-blade long to be cutting it.
“Valerie,” the Brazilian was saying in her ear, “I have come back faithful to you. My uncle is dead; I am twice as rich as I was when I went away. I mean to live and die in Paris, for you and with you.”
“Lower, Henri, I implore you——”
“Pooh! I mean to speak to you this evening, even if I should have to pitch all these creatures out of window, especially as I have lost two days in looking for you. I shall stay till the last.—I can, I suppose?”
Valerie smiled at her adopted cousin, and said:
“Remember that you are the son of my mother’s sister, who married your father during Junot’s campaign in Portugal.”
“What, I, Montes de Montejanos, great grandson of a conquerer of Brazil! Tell a lie?”
“Hush, lower, or we shall never meet again.”
“Pray, why?”
“Marneffe, like all dying wretches, who always take up some last whim, has a revived passion for me——”