I felt the rebuke.
“To change the subject,” continued she; “are you not a poet?”
“I do not deserve the name of poet, yet I will not deny that I have made verses.”
“I thought as much. What an instinct I have! O that I could prevail upon you to write some verses to me!”
“What! without knowing either your name or having looked upon your face. Mam’selle, I must at least set the features I am called upon to praise.”
“Ah, monsieur, you little know: were I to unmask those features, I should stand but a poor chance of getting the verses. My plain face would counteract all your poetic inspirations.”
“Shade of Lucretia! this is no needlewoman, though dealing in weapons quite as sharp. Modiste, indeed! I have been labouring under a mistake. This is some dame spirituelle, some grand lady.”
I had now grown more than curious to look upon the face of my companion. Her conversation had won me: a woman who could talk so, I fancied, could not be ill-looking. Such an enchanting spirit could not be hidden behind a plain face; besides, there was the gracefulness of form, the small gloved hand, the dainty foot and ankle demonstrated in the dance, a voice that rang like music, and the flash of a superb eye, which I could perceive even through the mask. Beyond a doubt, she was beautiful.
“Lady!” I said, speaking with more earnestness than ever, “I entreat you to unmask yourself. Were it not in a ball-room, I should beg the favour upon my knees.”
“And were I to grant it, you could hardly rise soon enough, and pronounce your lukewarm leave-taking. Hat monsieur! think of the yellow domino!”