Ermentrude’s heart was in her throat, not because of the splendour, to which she was accustomed; but it was to be her first meeting with a noble dame, whose name was historic, at whose feet the poets of the Second Empire had prostrated themselves, passionately plucking their lyres; the friend of Liszt, Wagner, Berlioz, of Manet, Degas, Monet; the new school—­this wonderful old woman knew them all, from Goncourt and Flaubert to Daudet and Maupassant.  Had she not, Ermentrude remembered as she divested herself of her cloak, sent a famous romancer out of the house because he spoke slightingly of the Pope?  Had she not cut the emperor dead when she saw him with a lady not his empress?  What a night this would be in the American girl’s orderly existence!  And he was to be there, he had promised the princess.

Her heart was overflowing when she was graciously received by the great lady who stood in the centre of a group at the back of the drawing-room—­a lofty apartment in white and gold, the panels painted by Baudry, the furniture purest Empire.  She noted the height and majestic bearing of this cousin of kings, noted the aquiline nose drooped over a contracted mouth—­which could assume most winning curves, withal shaded by suspicious down, that echoed in hue her inky eyebrows.  The eyes of the princess were small and green and her glance penetrating.  Her white hair rolled imperially from a high, narrow forehead.

Ermentrude bore herself with the utmost composure.  She adored the Old World, adored genius, but after all she was an Adams of New Hampshire, her sister the wife of a former ambassador.  It was more curiosity than gaucherie that prompted her to hold the hand offered her and scrutinize the features as if to evoke from the significant, etched wrinkles the tremendous past of this hostess.  The princess was pleased.

“Ah, Miss Adams,” she said, in idiomatic English, “you have candid eyes.  You make me feel like telling stories when you gaze at me so appealingly.  Don’t be shocked”—­the girl had coloured—­“perhaps I shall, after a while.”

Mr. Sheldam had slipped into a corner behind a very broad table and under the shaded lamps examined some engravings.  Mrs. Sheldam talked in hesitating French to the Marquis de Potachre, an old fellow of venerable and burlesque appearance.  His fierce little white mustaches were curled ceilingward, but his voice was as timid as honey.  He flourished his wizened hand toward Miss Adams.

“Charming!  Delightful!  She has something English in her insouciant pose, and is wholly American in her cerebral quality.  And what colouring, what gorgeous brown hair!  What a race, madame, is yours!”

Mrs. Sheldam began to explain that the Adams stock was famous, but the marquis did not heed her.  He peered at her niece through a gold-rimmed monocle.  The princess had left the group near the table and with two young men slowly moved down the salon.  Miss Adams was immediately surrounded by some antiquated gentlemen wearing orders, who paid her compliments in the manner of the eighteenth century.  She answered them with composure, for she was sure of her French, sure of herself—­the princess had not annihilated her.  Her aunt, accompanied by the marquis, crossed to her, and the old nobleman amused her with his saturnine remarks.