She is Medusa!" And Madame,
her mother, shivered.
Here, with her hair knotted up and secured by a tiny dagger, her gauzy
drapery gathered in her arm, Delphine floated down the green alley
toward us, as if in a rosy cloud. But this soft aspect never could have
been more widely contradicted than by the stony repose and cutting calm
of her beautiful face.
"The Marquis of G.," said her mother, "he also arrives ambassador. Has
he talent? Is he brilliant? Wealthy, of course,--but _gauche_?"
Therewith I sketched for them the Marquis and his surroundings.
"It is charming," said Madame. "Delphine, do you attend?"
"And why?" asked Delphine, half concealing a yawn with her dazzling
hand. "It is wearisome; it matters not to me."
"But he will not go to marry himself in France," said her mother. "Oh,
these English." she added, with a laugh, "yourself, Monsieur, being
proof of it, will not mingle blood, lest the Channel should still flow
between the little red globules! You will go? but to return shortly?
You will dine with me soon? _Au revoir!_" and she gave me her hand
graciously, while Delphine bowed as if I were already gone, threw
herself into a garden-chair, and commenced pouring the wine on a stone
for a little tame snake which came out and lapped it.
Such women as Mme. de St. Cyr have a species of magnetism about them.
It is difficult to retain one's self-respect before them,--for no
other reason than that one is, at the moment, absorbed into their
individuality, and thinks and acts with them.
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