Madame Firmiani | Page 5

Payronnet, and the Chevalier
Gluck, the Queen's favorite musician.
"Madame," he said to the Marquise de Listomere, who was on his arm
as they entered Madame Firmiani's salons, "if this woman is my
nephew's mistress, I pity him. How can she live in the midst of this
luxury, and know that he is in a garret? Hasn't she any soul? Octave is a
fool to have given up such an estate as Villaines for a--"
Monsieur de Bourbonne belonged to the species Fossil, and used the
language of the days of yore.
"But suppose he had lost it at play?"
"Then, madame, he would at least have had the pleasure of gambling."
"And do you think he has had no pleasure here? See! look at Madame
Firmiani."
The brightest memories of the old man faded at the sight of his
nephew's so-called mistress. His anger died away at the gracious
exclamation which came from his lips as he looked at her. By one of
those fortunate accidents which happen only to pretty women, it was a
moment when all her beauties shone with peculiar lustre, due perhaps
to the wax-lights, to the charming simplicity of her dress, to the
ineffable atmosphere of elegance that surrounded her. One must needs
have studied the transitions of an evening in a Parisian salon to
appreciate the imperceptible lights and shades which color a woman's

face and vary it. There comes a moment when, content with her toilet,
pleased with her own wit, delighted to be admired, and feeling herself
the queen of a salon full of remarkable men who smile to her, the
Parisian woman reaches a full consciousness of her grace and charm;
her beauty is enhanced by the looks she gathers in,--a mute homage
which she transfers with subtle glances to the man she loves. At
moments like these a woman is invested with supernatural power and
becomes a magician, a charmer, without herself knowing that she is one;
involuntarily she inspires the love that fills her own bosom; her smiles
and glances fascinate. If this condition, which comes from the soul, can
give attraction even to a plain woman, with what radiance does it not
invest a woman of natural elegance, distinguished bearing, fair, fresh,
with sparkling eyes, and dressed in a taste that wrings approval from
artists and her bitterest rivals.
Have you ever, for your happiness, met a woman whose harmonious
voice gives to her speech the same charm that emanates from her
manners? a woman who knows how to speak and to be silent, whose
words are happily chosen, whose language is pure, and who concerns
herself in your interests with delicacy? Her raillery is caressing, her
criticism never wounds; she neither discourses nor argues, but she likes
to lead a discussion and stop it at the right moment. Her manner is
affable and smiling, her politeness never forced, her readiness to serve
others never servile; she reduces the respect she claims to a soft shadow;
she never wearies you, and you leave her satisfied with her and with
yourself. Her charming grace is conveyed to all the things with which
she surrounds herself. Everything about her pleases the eye; in her
presence you breathe, as it were, your native air. This woman is natural.
There is no effort about her; she is aiming at no effect; her feelings are
shown simply, because they are true. Frank herself, she does not wound
the vanity of others; she accepts men as God made them; pitying the
vicious, forgiving defects and absurdities, comprehending all ages, and
vexed by nothing, because she has had the sense and tact to foresee all.
Tender and gay, she gratifies before she consoles. You love her so well
that if this angel did wrong you would be ready to excuse her. If, for
your happiness, you have met with such a woman, you know Madame
Firmiani.
After Monsieur de Bourbonne had talked with her for ten minutes,

sitting beside her, his nephew was forgiven. He perceived that whatever
the actual truth might be, the relation between Madame Firmiani and
Octave covered some mystery. Returning to the illusions that gild the
days of youth, and judging Madame Firmiani by her beauty, the old
gentleman became convinced that a woman so innately conscious of
her dignity as she appeared to be was incapable of a bad action. Her
dark eyes told of inward peace; the lines of her face were so noble, the
profile so pure, and the passion he had come to investigate seemed so
little to oppress her heart, that the old man said to himself, while noting
all the promises of love and virtue given by that adorable countenance,
"My nephew is committing some folly."
Madame Firmiani acknowledged to twenty-five. But the Practicals
proved that