"Hands exquisite."
"Feet, ditto."
"And his dress and manner."
"Unapproachable!"
"Not a shadow of pretence;—the essence of good-breeding founded upon extensive knowledge, and a thorough sense of position and its advantages; —in fact, the Napoleon of the parlor."
"But, Dalton," said I, nervously, "no one attends him."
"No,—I thought so at first; but do you see that Mephistophelean figure, in black, who follows the Duke a few paces behind, and is introduced to no one?"
"Yes. A singular creature, truly!—how thin he is!"
"That shadow that follows his Highness is, in fact, the famous valet, Rêve de Noir,—the prince of servants. The Duke goes nowhere without this man as a shadow. He asserts that Rêve de Noir has no soul; and I believe him. The face is that of a demon. It is a separate creation, equally wonderful with the master, but not human. He was condensed out of the atmosphere of the great world."
As we were speaking, we observed a crowd of distinguished persons gathered about and following his Highness, as he moved. He spoke now to one; now to another. Honoria, fascinated, her beauty every instant becoming more radiant, just leaned, with the lightest pressure, upon the Duke's arm. They were promenading through the rooms. The music, soft and low, continued, but the groups of dancers broke up, the loiterers in the gallery came in, and as the sun draws his fifty, perhaps his hundreds of planets, circling around and near him, this noble luminary centred in himself the attention of all. If they could not speak with him, they could at least speak of him. If they could not touch his hand, they could pass before him and give one glance at his eyes. The less aristocratic were even satisfied for the moment with watching the singular being, Rêve de Noir,—who caught no one's eye, seemed to see no one but his master,—and yet was not here nor there, nor in any place,—never in the way, a thing of air, and not tangible, but only black.