CHAPTER XV
t first Paul could hardly believe his senses. He was conscious, as he gazed into the depths of two marvellous eyes, of a tall supple figure all in black, a crimson rose in her dark hair lending a touch of color—that, and her red lips.
This was the face that had burned its lineaments into the tablets of his memory—the face so sweetly known at Lake Lucerne.
The babble of the arriving guests—the strains of the orchestra—became as the faint murmurs of a far off sea.
For Paul, one fact, and only one, existed—it was she—his Lady of the Beauteous Countenance; no vision, but a bewitching creature of flesh and blood whose gloved hand rested for a moment in his own.
As in a dream Paul heard the lady's name—the same that he had learned at Lucerne—and he felt himself murmuring something—what the words were he scarcely knew.
Not by so much as the quiver of an eyelash did Mademoiselle give sign of recognition, or memory of any previous meeting. She merely smiled as she told Paul that her old friend the Countess had often spoken of him.