“Say whatever comes into your head; but above all things don’t try to be bright, for you would make yourself a terrible bore.”
“But suppose nothing comes into my head?”
“You still have the resource of silence and eloquent glances; there are many people who stop there.”
“But this lady to whose house you are taking me?”
“True, I must tell you something about her. Madame Célival must be about thirty-six, but she is very good-looking; she is an alluring brunette; her eyes are most expressive, she has a lovely figure and graceful outlines; there is something fascinating, something voluptuous in her whole aspect, which seduces all the men. Madame Célival is a coquette, too, and is not supposed to be too cruel to those who sigh for her; but that is whispered only. She is her own mistress, however; she is the widow of a general, yes, a real general, who actually lived and left her a handsome fortune and no children. You may judge that the lovely widow does not lack adorers.--But, attention; here we are.”
In an elegant, brilliantly-lighted apartment on Rue Saint-Lazare, a fashionable company, already quite numerous, was engaged in conversation that was rarely of a private nature, but often piquant and satirical. At intervals, some witty person interjected a word or two, while the undaunted chatterers, who never had anything clever to say, persisted in holding the floor.
Madame Célival was just as Monfréville had described her: lovely, amiable, coquettish, glancing at a mirror from time to time, to be sure of the effect of her gown; paying due attention to all her guests, with the talent of a woman accustomed to society, but reserving softer and tenderer smiles for the men who were paying court to her.
Near the couch on which the mistress of the house had just taken her seat sat a young and pretty blonde, dressed in muslin and crêpe, and entangled in veils and scarfs that almost concealed her charming features; it was all pink and white and formed so becoming a frame for this lady that at a distance she resembled one of those engravings of a woman’s face surrounded by clouds.
Madame Célival thanked the pretty blonde for consenting to come to her reception, despite the torture caused by her nerves. A few steps away was a tall gentleman wearing a decoration; he was very thin and very ugly; his chin was surrounded by a sparse necklace of jet-black beard; moustaches no less glossy, and carefully waxed and twisted at the ends, made his face resemble a cat’s in some measure. He was addressed as colonel.