“Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie,” said the grand equerry, taking the colonel by the arm and presenting him to the duke and duchess, with an air of respect in his tone and gesture.
“I am glad to welcome you, Monsieur le comte!” said Monsieur de Verneuil. “You possess more than one treasure,” he added, looking at Modeste.
The duchess took Modeste under her arm and led her into an immense salon, where a dozen or more women were grouped about the fireplace. The men of the party remained with the duke on the terrace, except Canalis, who respectfully made his way to the superb Eleonore. The Duchesse de Chaulieu, seated at an embroidery-frame, was showing Mademoiselle de Verneuil how to shade a flower.
If Modeste had run a needle through her finger when handling a pin-cushion she could not have felt a sharper prick than she received from the cold and haughty and contemptuous stare with which Madame de Chaulieu favored her. For an instant she saw nothing but that one woman, and she saw through her. To understand the depths of cruelty to which these charming creatures, whom our passions deify, can go, we must see women with each other. Modeste would have disarmed almost any other than Eleonore by the perfectly stupid and involuntary admiration which her face betrayed. Had she not known the duchess’s age she would have thought her a woman of thirty-six; but other and greater astonishments awaited her.
The poet had run plump against a great lady’s anger. Such anger is the worst of sphinxes; the face is radiant, all the rest menacing. Kings themselves cannot make the exquisite politeness of a mistress’s cold anger capitulate when she guards it with steel armor. Canalis tried to cling to the steel, but his fingers slipped on the polished surface, like his words on the heart; and the gracious face, the gracious words, the gracious bearing of the duchess hid the steel of her wrath, now fallen to twenty-five below zero, from all observers. The appearance of Modeste in her sublime beauty, and dressed as well as Diane de Maufrigneuse herself, had fired the train of gunpowder which reflection had been laying in Eleonore’s mind.
All the women had gone to the windows to see the new wonder get out of the royal carriage, attended by her three suitors.
“Do not let us seem so curious,” Madame de Chaulieu had said, cut to the heart by Diane’s exclamation,—“She is divine! where in the world does she come from?”—and with that the bevy flew back to their seats, resuming their composure, though Eleonore’s heart was full of hungry vipers all clamorous for a meal.
Mademoiselle d’Herouville said in a low voice and with much meaning to the Duchesse de Verneuil, “Eleonore receives her Melchior very ungraciously.”
“The Duchesse de Maufrigneuse thinks there is a coolness between them,” said Laure de Verneuil, with simplicity.
Charming phrase! so often used in the world of society,—how the north wind blows through it.