The Deserted Woman | Page 9

necessity who never turn
back; the close presence of danger is an inspiration that calls out all
their powers for victory. Gaston de Nueil was one of these.
He took particular pains with his dress, imagining, as youth is apt to
imagine, that success or failure hangs on the position of a curl, and
ignorant of the fact that anything is charming in youth. And, in any
case, such women as Mme. de Beauseant are only attracted by the
charms of wit or character of an unusual order. Greatness of character
flatters their vanity, promises a great passion, seems to imply a
comprehension of the requirements of their hearts. Wit amuses them,
responds to the subtlety of their natures, and they think that they are
understood. And what do all women wish but to be amused, understood,
or adored? It is only after much reflection on the things of life that we
understand the consummate coquetry of neglect of dress and reserve at
a first interview; and by the time we have gained sufficient astuteness
for successful strategy, we are too old to profit by our experience.
While Gaston's lack of confidence in his mental equipment drove him
to borrow charms from his clothes, Madame de Beauseant herself was
instinctively giving more attention to her toilette.
"I would rather not frighten people, at all events," she said to herself as
she arranged her hair.
In M. de Nueil's character, person, and manner there was that touch of
unconscious originality which gives a kind of flavor to things that any
one might say or do, and absolves everything that they may choose to
do or say. He was highly cultivated, he had a keen brain, and a face,
mobile as his own nature, which won the goodwill of others. The
promise of passion and tenderness in the bright eyes was fulfilled by an
essentially kindly heart. The resolution which he made as he entered
the house at Courcelles was in keeping with his frank nature and ardent
imagination. But, bold has he was with love, his heart beat violently

when he had crossed the great court, laid out like an English garden,
and the man-servant, who had taken his name to the Vicomtesse,
returned to say that she would receive him.
"M. le Baron de Nueil."
Gaston came in slowly, but with sufficient ease of manner; and it is a
more difficult thing, be it said, to enter a room where there is but one
woman, than a room that holds a score.
A great fire was burning on the hearth in spite of the mild weather, and
by the soft light of the candles in the sconces he saw a young woman
sitting on a high-backed /bergere/ in the angle by the hearth. The seat
was so low that she could move her head freely; every turn of it was
full of grace and delicate charm, whether she bent, leaning forward, or
raised and held it erect, slowly and languidly, as though it were a heavy
burden, so low that she could cross her feet and let them appear, or
draw them back under the folds of a long black dress.
The Vicomtesse made as if she would lay the book that she was reading
on a small, round stand; but as she did so, she turned towards M. de
Nueil, and the volume, insecurely laid upon the edge, fell to the ground
between the stand and the sofa. This did not seem to disconcert her.
She looked up, bowing almost imperceptibly in response to his greeting,
without rising from the depths of the low chair in which she lay.
Bending forwards, she stirred the fire briskly, and stooped to pick up a
fallen glove, drawing it mechanically over her left hand, while her eyes
wandered in search of its fellow. The glance was instantly checked,
however, for she stretched out a thin, white, all- but-transparent right
hand, with flawless ovals of rose-colored nail at the tips of the slender,
ringless fingers, and pointed to a chair as if to bid Gaston be seated. He
sat down, and she turned her face questioningly towards him. Words
cannot describe the subtlety of the winning charm and inquiry in that
gesture; deliberate in its kindliness, gracious yet accurate in expression,
it was the outcome of early education and of a constant use and wont of
the graciousness of life. These movements of hers, so swift, so deft,
succeeded each other by the blending of a pretty woman's fastidious
carelessness with the high-bred manner of a great lady.
Mme. de Beauseant stood out in such strong contrast against the
automatons among whom he had spent two months of exile in that
out-of- the-world district of Normandy, that he could not but find in her

the