“Mon Dieu, what wealth of golden hair! What beauty! of a certainement, zis bride is ze fairest of ze fair!” she exclaimed, in rapture.
Suddenly Violet’s fair breast heaved with returning life, her white lids trembled, then flared wide open, and the woman beheld her charge’s greatest charm, the splendid dark-blue eyes like violets in the spring, touched with golden sunshine.
She gave a low cry of admiration, and drew those glorious eyes to her face.
“I—I—oh, who are you, and where am I?” cried Violet, weakly, staring in amazement at the dark, strange face of the French maid.
“Miladi, you are at home. You have arrived with your husband one little while ago, remember you not?” replied the vivacious Suzanne.
Violet pressed her hand to her brow in bewilderment, and, lifting her head, gazed about the unfamiliar apartment.
She saw a spacious apartment hung with draperies of white and gold—a sumptuous apartment lined with massive mirrors that reflected everywhere luxury and beauty, couches of white velvet and gold satin, exquisite statuettes, costly pictures in richly gilded frames, flowers everywhere, roses and violets predominating, and the whole scene lighted softly by wax candles burning in exquisite candlesticks fashioned like white lilies—a room fit for a queen.
Mademoiselle Suzanne waited eagerly for some cry of admiration from miladi, but none came, and she exclaimed:
“It is beautiful, magnifique, is it not?”
The blue eyes turned back to her face.