He entered with his soft melancholy smile, and approaching Belle-bouche, pressed her hand to his lips.
"I am glad to see you so bright," he said; "but you always look blooming."
And he sat down and gazed around sadly.
Perhaps Jacques had never before so closely resembled a tulip. His coat was red, his waistcoat scarlet, his lace yellow, his stockings white; his shoes, lastly, were adorned with huge rosettes, and his wig was a perfect snow-storm of powder.
Belle-bouche casts down her eyes, and a roseate bloom diffuses itself over her tender cheek. Jacques arrays his forces, and gracefully smooths his Mechlin lace cravat. Outwardly he is calm.
Belle-bouche raises her eyes, and gently flirts her fan, covered with shepherds and shepherdesses in silks and satins, who tend imaginary sheep by sky-blue waters, against deeply emerald trees.
Jacques sighs, remembering his discourse on crooks, and Belle-bouche smiles. He gathers courage then, and says:
"I think I have never seen a more beautiful morning."
"Yes," says Belle-bouche in her soft tender voice, "I have been out to take my customary walk before breakfast."