The countess was captivated by ideas worthy of the days of chivalry, though completely modernized.  The glowing conversation of the poet had more echo in her mind than in her heart.  She thought it fine to be his providence.  How sweet the thought of supporting by her white and feeble hand this colossus,—­whose feet of clay she did not choose to see; of giving life where life was needed; of being secretly the creator of a career; of helping a man of genius to struggle with fate and master it.  Ah! to embroider his scarf for the tournament! to procure him weapons! to be his talisman against ill-fortune! his balm for every wound!  For a woman brought up like Marie, religious and noble as she was, such a love was a form of charity.  Hence the boldness of it.  Pure sentiments often compromise themselves with a lofty disdain that resembles the boldness of courtesans.

As soon as by her specious distinctions Marie had convinced herself that she did not in any way impair her conjugal faith, she rushed into the happiness of loving Raoul.  The least little things of her daily life acquired a charm.  Her boudoir, where she thought of him, became a sanctuary.  There was nothing there that did not rouse some sense of pleasure; even her ink-stand was the coming accomplice in the pleasures of correspondence; for she would now have letters to read and answer.  Dress, that splendid poesy of the feminine life, unknown or exhausted by her, appeared to her eyes endowed with a magic hitherto unperceived.  It suddenly became clear to her what it is to most women, the manifestation of an inward thought, a language, a symbol.  How many enjoyments in a toilet arranged to please him, to do him honor!  She gave herself up ingenuously to all those gracefully charming things in which so many Parisian women spend their lives, and which give such significance to all that we see about them, and in them, and on them.  Few women go to milliners and dressmakers for their own pleasure and interest.  When old they never think of adornment.  The next time you meet in the street a young woman stopping for a moment to look into a shop-window, examine her face carefully.  “Will he think I look better in that?” are the words written on that fair brow, in the eyes sparkling with hope, in the smile that flickers on the lips.

Lady Dudley’s ball took place on a Saturday night.  On the following Monday the countess went to the Opera, feeling certain of seeing Raoul, who was, in fact, watching for her on one of the stairways leading down to the stalls.  With what delight did she observe the unwonted care he had bestowed upon his clothes.  This despiser of the laws of elegance had brushed and perfumed his hair; his waistcoat followed the fashion, his cravat was well tied, the bosom of his shirt was irreproachably smooth.  Raoul was standing with his arms crossed as if posed for his portrait, magnificently indifferent to the rest of the audience and full of repressed impatience.  Though lowered, his eyes were turned to the red velvet cushion on which lay Marie’s arm.  Felix, seated in the opposite corner of the box, had his back to Nathan.