Here is a portrait, then, Renee, of your sister, formerly disguised as a Carmelite, now brought to life again as a frivolous society girl.  She is one of the greatest beauties in France—­Provence, of course, excepted.  I don’t see that I can give a more accurate summary of this interesting topic.

True, I have my weak points; but were I a man, I should adore them.  They arise from what is most promising in me.  When you have spent a fortnight admiring the exquisite curves of your mother’s arms, and that mother the Duchesse de Chaulieu, it is impossible, my dear, not to deplore your own angular elbows.  Yet there is consolation in observing the fineness of the wrist, and a certain grace of line in those hollows, which will yet fill out and show plump, round, and well modeled, under the satiny skin.  The somewhat crude outline of the arms is seen again in the shoulders.  Strictly speaking, indeed, I have no shoulders, but only two bony blades, standing out in harsh relief.  My figure also lacks pliancy; there is a stiffness about the side lines.

Poof!  There’s the worst out.  But then the contours are bold and delicate, the bright, pure flame of health bites into the vigorous lines, a flood of life and of blue blood pulses under the transparent skin, and the fairest daughter of Eve would seem a Negress beside me!  I have the foot of a gazelle!  My joints are finely turned, my features of a Greek correctness.  It is true, madame, that the flesh tints do not melt into each other; but, at least, they stand out clear and bright.  In short, I am a very pretty green fruit, with all the charm of unripeness.  I see a great likeness to the face in my aunt’s old missal, which rises out of a violet lily.

There is no silly weakness in the blue of my insolent eyes; the white is pure mother-of-pearl, prettily marked with tiny veins, and the thick, long lashes fall like a silken fringe.  My forehead sparkles, and the hair grows deliciously; it ripples into waves of pale gold, growing browner towards the centre, whence escape little rebel locks, which alone would tell that my fairness is not of the insipid and hysterical type.  I am a tropical blonde, with plenty of blood in my veins, a blonde more apt to strike than to turn the cheek.  What do you think the hairdresser proposed?  He wanted, if you please, to smooth my hair into two bands, and place over my forehead a pearl, kept in place by a gold chain!  He said it would recall the Middle Ages.

I told him I was not aged enough to have reached the middle, or to need an ornament to freshen me up!

The nose is slender, and the well-cut nostrils are separated by a sweet little pink partition—­an imperious, mocking nose, with a tip too sensitive ever to grow fat or red.  Sweetheart, if this won’t find a husband for a dowerless maiden, I’m a donkey.  The ears are daintily curled, a pearl hanging from either lobe would show yellow.  The neck is long, and has an undulating motion full of dignity.  In the shade the white ripens to a golden tinge.  Perhaps the mouth is a little large.  But how expressive! what a color on the lips! how prettily the teeth laugh!