“Great God!” exclaimed Celeste du Clozel, “it is Treville de Saint Julien!”—­“Oh!” cried Madame de la Houssaye, “Tonton is a fool, an arch-fool.  Does she want to see bloodshed this evening?”—­“The Countess Madelaine is going to faint!” derisively whispered Olivier in my ear.

“Who,” asked Suzanne, “is Treville de Saint Julien?”

“He is ‘the hermit of Bayou Tortue,’” responded the gentle Celeste de Blanc.

“What pretense of simplicity, look you!” said Charles du Clozel, glancing towards him disdainfully.

“But look at Madame du Rocher,” cried a girl standing on a bench, “how she is dressed.  What contempt of fashion and propriety!  It is positively shameful.”

And Tonton, indifferent to these remarks, which she heard and to which she was accustomed, and to the furious glances thrown upon her cavalier by Neville Declouet, continued, with her arm in his, to chat and laugh with him as they walked slowly around the hall.

If I describe to you, my daughter, the toilets of Tonton and of Treville de Saint Julien, I write it for you alone, dear child, and it seems to me it would be a theft against you if I did not.  But this is the last time I shall stop to describe petticoats, gowns, and knee-breeches.  Treville was twenty-five; large, dark, of a manly, somber beauty.  A great unhappiness had overtaken him in childhood and left a permanent trace on his forehead.  He wore his hair slightly long, falling behind without queue or powder.  In 1795 only soldiers retained their beard.  Treville de Saint Julien, despite the fashion, kept the fine black mustache on his proud lip.  His shirt, without a frill, was fastened with three gold buttons.  His broad-skirted coat, long vest, and breeches were of black woolen stuff.  His black stockings were also of wool.  His garters and shoes were without buckles.  But serving him as a garter, and forming a rosette on the front of the leg, he wore a ribbon of plaided rose and black.

And Tonton.  Over a dress—­a real dress, such as we have nowadays—­of rose satin, with long-pointed waist, was draped another, of black lace.  The folds, running entirely around the skirt, were caught up by roses surrounded by their buds and leaves.  The same drapery was repeated on the waist, and in front and on the shoulders re-appeared the roses.  The sleeves were very short, and the arms bare and without gloves.  It was simple, but prettier than you can think.  Her hair was in two wide braids, without powder, forming a heart and falling low upon the neck.  Among these tresses she had placed a rose like those on the skirt.  For ornaments she had only a necklace and bracelets of jet to heighten the fresh whiteness of her complexion.

They had said Tonton would die of jealousy at our rich toilets.  Nothing of the sort.  She came to us with her habitual grace, kissed us, ignoring etiquette and the big eyes made by the Countess Madelaine.  Without an allusion to our dress or seeming to see it, she sat down between us, told us persons’ names, pointed out the beauty of this one, the pretty dress of that one, always admiring, never criticising.  She knew well she was without a rival.