The marquis had one of those faces which always make one shudder when they assume to express confidence in a person.
The young Marquise de Santoval was in her dressing room, standing before a large Venetian mirror, which, in those days, filled the place of the modern psyche. She was trying the effect against her hair of a new set of rubies which her husband had brought her that morning. And as the reddish gleam of the stones harmonized perfectly with the brilliant gloss of her raven locks, Valentine could not restrain a smile of satisfaction at finding herself so lovely.
"This is becoming to me, is it not, Miretta?" she asked, turning to her pretty maid, who stood behind her gazing at her with a sad expression.
"Yes, madame, it is admirable; it is perfectly suited to you. I do not think that it is possible to be more lovely."
"Aha! flatterer!—But it is possible to be less lovely and more attractive!"
"Monsieur le marquis is very gallant; his presents are magnificent!"
"He does no more than he should do! I think that he was much flattered by the preference I accorded him."
"Can it be that madame regrets it now?"
"Hush, Miretta, hush! there are some things that must never be said!—However, I have no regrets; I did what I was determined to do. It was not a caprice that guided my action. Nor, as you may imagine, was it love—although Monsieur de Santoval is still young, and a very handsome man. Indeed, there are some women who consider him superb. Not long ago, Madame de Grangeville whispered in my ear: 'I congratulate you on your choice! Monsieur de Santoval is one of the handsomest cavaliers at court!'"
"Did that flatter you, madame?"