But when she caught sight of her own figure in the mirrors, standing amidst all the glow and delicacy of colour of these marvellous chambers, she seemed to herself barbarous, incongruous, grotesque, a blot upon the scene, a savage set amidst civilisation. All the flatteries which had been poured out to her ear had passed by her, making little impression. There were the mirrors, which were truer counsellors than he; they showed her that she was not as these people were. She did not think she had any beauty at all, she only saw that she had none of this grace which was around her, that she was like a bit of ribbon weed from the sea amongst lilies and lilac.
She was so interested and so absorbed that she was startled as by a blow when she saw the double doors at the end of the drawing-rooms thrown open by a man with a silver chain and a white wand, and the figure of her hostess appeared led by the Prince of Lemberg and followed by all the ladies and gentlemen who had dined with her that evening.
With the swift movement of a hunted thing Damaris drew back behind a screen of plush embroidered like the walls and chairs and couches with silken garlands of spring flowers.
No one was thinking of her.
Even Othmar passed by the spot where he had left her without looking for her. He was talking to a very tall slight blonde woman, who was the Princesse de Laon, and had been Blanchette de Vannes. They all went by the screen and passed on into the farthest room of all, where the Erard stood. Damaris, like a forsaken child, crouched down on the stool she had found there, and the big hot tears forced themselves from under her eyelids. It was foolish, she knew; unreasonable, no doubt; but the most piteous sense of mortification and of insignificance was upon her, like a heavy hand crushing her down into the earth.
At Bonaventure, despite the harshness at any disobedience with which she was treated by her grandfather, she had been in much a spoilt child; the few people on the island were all her ministers and servants. On the rare occasions when she visited the mainland, everyone treated with reverence and flattery the heiress to Jean Bérarde's wealth and acres; even when these great people had come to her they had praised her talent, they had suggested wild hopes to her, they had given her honeyed words; unconsciously she had expected something very great to happen to her when she should be seen at this house where her presence was said to be so desired—to realise that she was nothing here, less than the servants, who at least had their place and their duties in it, was the most cruel of disillusions.
Overcome by the unusual warmth and closeness of the atmosphere, which sent her blood to her temples and filled her with a strange drowsiness, she let her head fall back upon the cushion of her couch and fell asleep. She dreamed strange things. There was nothing to distract her. The servants glanced at her contemptuously and let her alone; they had no orders about her, and in the house of Nadine no one ever dared to act without orders.
The perfumed air, the dry warmth from the calorifères, the profound stillness, invited slumber; and she slept on as soundly as any tired child that throws itself upon a primrose bank on an April day.
She was roused by a sound of sweet notes like the voices of her nightingales when they sung under the orange-leaves.