On examining my friend’s wife, I saw that my first impression had not been erroneous—­she was literally a little angel, and a little angel in the shape of a woman, which is all the better.  She was delicate, slender as a young girl; her voice was as thrilling and harmonious as the chaffinch, with an indefinable accent that smacked of no part of the country in particular, but lent a charm to her slightest word.  She had, moreover, a way of speaking of her own, a childish and coquettish way of modulating the ends of her sentences and turning her eyes toward her husband, as if to seek for his approbation.  She blushed every moment, but at the same time her smile was so bewitching and her teeth so white that she seemed to be laughing at herself.  A charming little woman!  Add to this a strange yet tasteful toilette, rather daring, perhaps, but suiting this little queen, so singular in herself.  Her beautiful fair hair, twisted up apparently at hazard, was fixed rather high up on the head by a steel comb worn somewhat on one side; and her white muslin dress trimmed with wide, flat ruches, cut square at the neck, short in the skirt, and looped up all round, had a delicious eighteenth-century appearance.  The angel was certainly a trifle coquettish, but in her own way, and yet her way was exquisite.

Hardly were we seated at table when Oscar threw toward his little queen a rapid glance, but one so full of happiness and-why should I not say it?—­love that I experienced a kind of shiver, a thrill of envy, astonishment, and admiration, perhaps.  He took from the basket of flowers on the table a red rose, scarcely opened, and, pushing it toward her, said with a smile: 

“For your hair, Madame.”

The fair girl blushed deeply, took the flower, and, without hesitation, quickly and dexterously stuck it in her hair, high up on the left, just in the right spot, and, delightedly turning round to each of us, repeated several times, amid bursts of laughter, “Is it right like that?”

Then she wafted a tiny kiss with the tips of her fingers to her husband, as a child of twelve would have done, and gayly plunged her spoon into the soup, turning up her little finger as she did so.

The other guests had nothing very remarkable about them; they laughed very good-naturedly at these childish ways, but seemed somewhat out of place amid all this charming freedom from restraint.  The cousin, above all, the angler, with his white waistcoat, his blue tie, his full beard, and his almond eyes, especially displeased me.  He rolled his r’s like an actor at a country theatre.  He broke his bread into little bits and nibbled them as he talked.  I divined that the pleasure of showing off a large ring he wore had something to do with this fancy for playing with his bread.  Once or twice I caught a glance of melancholy turned toward the mistress of the house, but at first I did not take much notice of it, my attention being attracted by the brilliant gayety of Oscar.