She remembered, nevertheless, a certain desperation of mind, scarce imaginable in the retrospect, by which, trembling, fever-smitten, scorning herself, she had been reduced to hope for Nevil Beauchamp’s coming as for a rescue.  The night of the storm had roused her heart.  Since then his perfect friendliness had lulled, his air of thoughtfulness had interested it; and the fancy that he, who neither reproached nor sentimentalized, was to be infinitely compassionated, stirred up remorse.  She could not tell her friend Agnes of these feelings while her feelings were angered against her friend.  So she talked lightly of ‘the legitimate king,’ and they embraced:  a situation of comedy quite as true as that presented by the humble admirers of the brilliant chatelaine.

Beauchamp had the pleasure of rowing Madame la Marquise to the short shaded walk separating the river from Chateau Dianet, whither M. d’Orbec went on horseback, and Madame d’Auffray and M. Livret were driven.  The portrait of Diane of Dianet was praised for the beauty of the dame, a soft-fleshed acutely featured person, a fresh-of-the-toilette face, of the configuration of head of the cat, relieved by a delicately aquiline nose; and it could only be the cat of fairy metamorphosis which should stand for that illustration:  brows and chin made an acceptable triangle, and eyes and mouth could be what she pleased for mice or monarchs.  M. Livret did not gainsay the impeachment of her by a great French historian, tender to women, to frailties in particular—­yes, she was cold, perhaps grasping:  but dwell upon her in her character of woman; conceive her existing, to estimate the charm of her graciousness.  Name the two countries which alone have produced the woman, the ideal woman, the woman of art, whose beauty, grace, and wit offer her to our contemplation in an atmosphere above the ordinary conditions of the world:  these two countries are France and Greece!  None other give you the perfect woman, the woman who conquers time, as she conquers men, by virtue of the divinity in her blood; and she, as little as illustrious heroes, is to be judged by the laws and standards of lesser creatures.  In fashioning her, nature and art have worked together:  in her, poetry walks the earth.  The question of good or bad is entirely to be put aside:  it is a rustic’s impertinence—­a bourgeois’ vulgarity.  She is preeminent, voila tout.  Has she grace and beauty?  Then you are answered:  such possessions are an assurance that her influence in the aggregate must be for good.  Thunder, destructive to insects, refreshes earth:  so she.  So sang the rhapsodist.  Possibly a scholarly little French gentleman, going down the grey slopes of sixty to second childishness, recovers a second juvenility in these enthusiasms; though what it is that inspires our matrons to take up with them is unimaginable.  M. Livret’s ardour was a contrast to the young Englishman’s vacant gaze at Diane, and the symbols of her goddesship running along the walls, the bed, the cabinets, everywhere that the chaste device could find frontage and a corner.