"He is hiding," said my mother.
Then I remembered his ugliness, his attire, his thin hair, and his scarred face.
"Poor dear Edmond," I said, "let him come to me. He is more beautiful than Adonis."
"While we are waiting for your lord and master," mamma answered, "admire yourself; look in the glass. You may admire yourself for a long time without blame, if you are to make up for lost time."
I obeyed; a little from vanity, a little from curiosity. What if I was ugly? What if my plainness, like my poverty, had been concealed from me? They led me to my pier-glass. I uttered a cry of joy. With my slender figure, my complexion like a rose, my eyes a little dazed, and like two shimmering sapphires, I was charming. Nevertheless, I could not look at myself quite at my ease, for the glass was trembling without cessation, and my image reflected on its brilliant surface seemed as if it danced for joy.
I looked behind the glass to see what made it tremble.
A young man came out—a fine young man, with large black eyes and striking figure, whose coat was adorned by the rosette of the Legion of Honour. I blushed to think that I had been so foolish in the presence of a stranger.
"Just look," said my mother to me, without taking any notice of him, "how fair you are; like a white rose."