“Will M. le Marquis be kind enough to take a seat?” he said.  “I run to notify Mme. le Baronne of M. le Marquis’s visit.”

The footman uttered these titles of nobility with a singular pomp, and as if some of their lustre was reflected upon himself.  Nevertheless, it was evident that “Marquis” jingled to his ear much more pleasantly than “Baronne.”

Remaining alone, M. de Tregars threw himself upon a seat.  Worn out by the emotions of the day, and by an extraordinary contention of mind, he felt thankful for this moment of respite, which permitted him, at the moment of a decisive step, to collect all his energy and all his presence of mind.

And after two minutes he was so deeply absorbed in his thoughts, that he started, like a man suddenly aroused from his sleep, at the sound of an opening door.  At the same moment he heard a slight exclamation of surprise, “Ah!”

Instead of the Baroness de Thaller, it was her daughter, Mlle. Cesarine, who had come in.

Stepping forward to the centre of the room, and acknowledging by a familiar gesture M. de Tregars’ most respectful bow,

“You should warn people,” she said.  “I came here to look for my mother, and it is you I find.  Why, you scared me to death.  What a crack!  Princess dear!”

And taking the young man’s hand, and pressing it to her breast,

“Feel,” she added, “how my heart beats.”

Younger than Mlle. Gilberte, Mlle. Cesarine de Thaller had a reputation for beauty so thoroughly established, that to call it in question would have seemed a crime to her numerous admirers.  And really she was a handsome person.  Rather tall and well made, she had broad hips, the waist round and supple as a steel rod, and a magnificent throat.  Her neck was, perhaps, a little too thick and too short; but upon her robust shoulders was scattered in wild ringlets the rebellious hair that escaped from her comb.  She was a blonde, but of that reddish blonde, almost as dark as mahogany, which Titian admired, and which the handsome Venetians obtained by means of rather repulsive practices, and by exposing themselves to the noonday sun on the terraces of their palaces.  Her complexion had the gilded hues of amber.  Her lips, red as blood, displayed as they opened, teeth of dazzling whiteness.  In her large prominent eyes, of a milky blue, like the Northern skies, laughed the eternal irony of a soul that no longer has faith in any thing.  More anxious of her fame than of good taste, she wore a dress of doubtful shade, puffed up by means of an extravagant pannier, and buttoned obliquely across the chest, according to that ridiculous and ungraceful style invented by flat or humped women.

Throwing herself upon a chair, and placing cavalierly one foot upon another, so as to display her leg, which was admirable,

“Do you know that it’s perfectly stunning to see you here?” she said to M. de Tregars.  “Just imagine, for a moment, what a face the Baron Three Francs Sixty-eight will make when he sees you!”