At a short distance from her there was a young woman of twenty-three or twenty-four, courted like a queen and somewhat confused by the many questions addressed to her; robed in a white gown, she was extremely pretty, fair, and wore natural roses in her ash-colored hair, her eyes had a wondering expression, her cheeks were flushed, and in her amiable, gracious manner, she disclosed a touch of provincialism, modesty and hesitation—Marianne heard Madame Gerson say to her neighbors:
"It is the minister's wife."
"Madame Vaudrey?"
"Yes! Very charming, isn't she?"
"Ravishingly pretty! Fresh-looking!"
Then in lowered tone:
"Too fresh!"
"Rather provincial!"
And one voice replied, in an ironical, apologetic tone:
"Bless me, my dear, nothing dashing! Hair and complexion peculiarly her own! So much the better."