The Nabob [170]
a great personal charm with this acquired science--a science visible even in her black and very simple dress, which brought out her nun-like pallor, her houri-like eyes, her shining and plaited hair drawn back from a narrow, child-like forehead, a forehead of which the small mouth accentuated the mystery, hiding from the inquisitive the former /favourite's/ whole varied past, she who had no age, who knew not herself the date of her birth, and never remembered to have been a child.
Evidently if the absolute power of evil--rare indeed among women, influenced as they are by their impressionable physical nature by so many different currents--could take possession of a soul, it would be in that of this slave, moulded by basenesses, revolted but patient, and complete mistress of herself, like all those whom the habit of veiling the eyes has accustomed to lie safely and unscrupulously.
At this moment no one could have suspected the anguish she suffered; to see her kneeling before the princess, an old, good, straightforward soul, of whom the Fuernberg was always saying, "Call that a princess-- that!"
"I beg of you, godmamma, don't go away yet."
She surrounded her with all sorts of cajoleries, of graces, of little airs, without telling her, to be sure, that she wanted to keep her till the arrival of the Jansoulets, to add to her triumph.
"But," said the princess, pointing out to her the majestic Armenian, silent and grave, his tasselled hat on his knees, "I must take this poor bishop to the /Grand Saint-Christophe/, to buy some medals. He would never get on without me."
"No, no, I wish--you must--a few minutes more." And the baroness threw a furtive look on the ancient and sumptuous clock in a corner of the room.
Five o'clock already, and the great Afchin not arrived. The Levantines began to laugh behind their fans. Happily tea was just being served, also Spanish wines, and a crowd of delicious Turkish cakes which were only to be had in that house, whose receipts, brought away with her by the favourite, had been preserved in the harem, like some secrets of confectionery on our convents. That made a diversion. Hemerlingue, who on Saturdays came out of his office from time to time to make his bow to the ladies, was drinking a glass of Madeira near the little table while talking to Maurice Trott, once the dresser of Said-Pasha, when his wife approached him, gently and quietly. He knew what anger this impenetrable calm must cover, and asked her, in a low tone, timidly:
"No one?"
"No one. You see to what an insult you expose me."
She smiled, her eyes half closed, taking with the end of her nail a crumb of cake from his long black whiskers, but her little transparent nostrils trembled with a terrible eloquence.
"Oh, she will come," said the banker, his mouth full. "I am sure she will come."
The noise of dresses, of a train rustling in the next room made the baroness turn quickly. But, to the great joy of the "bundles," looking on from their corners, it was not the lady they were expecting.
This tall, elegant blonde, with worn features and irreproachable toilette, was not like Mlle. Afchin. She was worthy in every way to bear a name as celebrated as that of Dr. Jenkins. In the last two or three months the beautiful Mme. Jenkins had greatly changed, become much older. In the life of a woman who has long remained young there comes a time when the years, which have passed over her head without leaving a wrinkle, trace their passage all at once brutally in indelible marks. People no longer say, on seeing her, "How beautiful she is!" but "How beautiful she must have been!" And this cruel way of speaking in the past, of throwing back to a distant period that which was but yesterday a visible fact, marks a beginning of old age and of retirement, a change of all her triumphs into memories. Was it the disappointment of seeing the doctor's wife arrive, instead of Mme. Jansoulet, or did the discredit which the Duke de Mora's death had thrown on the fashionable physician fall on her who bore his name? There was
Evidently if the absolute power of evil--rare indeed among women, influenced as they are by their impressionable physical nature by so many different currents--could take possession of a soul, it would be in that of this slave, moulded by basenesses, revolted but patient, and complete mistress of herself, like all those whom the habit of veiling the eyes has accustomed to lie safely and unscrupulously.
At this moment no one could have suspected the anguish she suffered; to see her kneeling before the princess, an old, good, straightforward soul, of whom the Fuernberg was always saying, "Call that a princess-- that!"
"I beg of you, godmamma, don't go away yet."
She surrounded her with all sorts of cajoleries, of graces, of little airs, without telling her, to be sure, that she wanted to keep her till the arrival of the Jansoulets, to add to her triumph.
"But," said the princess, pointing out to her the majestic Armenian, silent and grave, his tasselled hat on his knees, "I must take this poor bishop to the /Grand Saint-Christophe/, to buy some medals. He would never get on without me."
"No, no, I wish--you must--a few minutes more." And the baroness threw a furtive look on the ancient and sumptuous clock in a corner of the room.
Five o'clock already, and the great Afchin not arrived. The Levantines began to laugh behind their fans. Happily tea was just being served, also Spanish wines, and a crowd of delicious Turkish cakes which were only to be had in that house, whose receipts, brought away with her by the favourite, had been preserved in the harem, like some secrets of confectionery on our convents. That made a diversion. Hemerlingue, who on Saturdays came out of his office from time to time to make his bow to the ladies, was drinking a glass of Madeira near the little table while talking to Maurice Trott, once the dresser of Said-Pasha, when his wife approached him, gently and quietly. He knew what anger this impenetrable calm must cover, and asked her, in a low tone, timidly:
"No one?"
"No one. You see to what an insult you expose me."
She smiled, her eyes half closed, taking with the end of her nail a crumb of cake from his long black whiskers, but her little transparent nostrils trembled with a terrible eloquence.
"Oh, she will come," said the banker, his mouth full. "I am sure she will come."
The noise of dresses, of a train rustling in the next room made the baroness turn quickly. But, to the great joy of the "bundles," looking on from their corners, it was not the lady they were expecting.
This tall, elegant blonde, with worn features and irreproachable toilette, was not like Mlle. Afchin. She was worthy in every way to bear a name as celebrated as that of Dr. Jenkins. In the last two or three months the beautiful Mme. Jenkins had greatly changed, become much older. In the life of a woman who has long remained young there comes a time when the years, which have passed over her head without leaving a wrinkle, trace their passage all at once brutally in indelible marks. People no longer say, on seeing her, "How beautiful she is!" but "How beautiful she must have been!" And this cruel way of speaking in the past, of throwing back to a distant period that which was but yesterday a visible fact, marks a beginning of old age and of retirement, a change of all her triumphs into memories. Was it the disappointment of seeing the doctor's wife arrive, instead of Mme. Jansoulet, or did the discredit which the Duke de Mora's death had thrown on the fashionable physician fall on her who bore his name? There was