diaphanous that a nutshell can contain it.  Madame Rabourdin’s graceful figure, made more slender still by the black draperies, was shown to advantage by a carefully cut dress, the two sides of which met at the shoulders in a single strap without sleeves.  At every motion she seemed, like a butterfly, to be about to leave her covering; but the gown held firmly on by some contrivance of the wonderful dressmaker.  The robe was of mousseline de laine—­a material which the manufacturers had not yet sent to the Paris markets; a delightful stuff which some months later was to have a wild success, a success which went further and lasted longer than most French fashions.  The actual economy of mousseline de laine, which needs no washing, has since injured the sale of cotton fabrics enough to revolutionize the Rouen manufactories.  Celestine’s little feet, covered with fine silk stockings and turk-satin shoes (for silk-satin is inadmissible in deep mourning) were of elegant proportions.  Thus dressed, she was very handsome.  Her complexion, beautified by a bran-bath, was softly radiant.  Her eyes, suffused with the light of hope, and sparkling with intelligence, justified her claims to the superiority which des Lupeaulx, proud and happy on this occasion, asserted for her.

She entered the room well (women will understand the meaning of that expression), bowed gracefully to the minister’s wife, with a happy mixture of deference and of self-respect, and gave no offence by a certain reliance on her own dignity; for every beautiful woman has the right to seem a queen.  With the minister himself she took the pretty air of sauciness which women may properly allow themselves with men, even when they are grand dukes.  She reconnoitred the field, as it were, while taking her seat, and saw that she was in the midst of one of those select parties of few persons, where the women eye and appraise each other, and every word said echoes in all ears; where every glance is a stab, and conversation a duel with witnesses; where all that is commonplace seems commoner still, and where every form of merit or distinction is silently accepted as though it were the natural level of all present.  Rabourdin betook himself to the adjoining salon in which a few persons were playing cards; and there he planted himself on exhibition, as it were, which proved that he was not without social intelligence.

“My dear,” said the Marquise d’Espard to the Comtesse Feraud, Louis XVIII.’s last mistress, “Paris is certainly unique.  It produces—­whence and how, who knows?—­women like this person, who seems ready to will and to do anything.”

“She really does will, and does do everything,” put in des Lupeaulx, puffed up with satisfaction.