That little Madame d’Ormonde certainly had the
devil in her, but above all, a fantastic, baffling
brain, through which the most unheard of caprices
passed, in which ideas danced and jostled each other,
like those pieces of different colored glass in a
kaleidoscope, which form such strange figures when
they have been shaken, in which Parisine was
fermenting to such an extent—you know, Parisine,
the analysis of which Roqueplan lately gave—that
the most learned members of The Institute would
have wasted his science and his wisdom if he had tried
to follow her slips and her subterfuges.
That was, very likely, the reason why she attracted,
retained and infatuated even those who had paid their
debt to implacable love, who thought that they were
strong and free from those passions under the influence
of which men lose their heads, and that they were beyond
the reach of woman’s perfidious snares.
Or, perhaps, it was her small, soft, delicate, white
hands, which always smelled of some subtle, delicious
perfume, and whose small fingers men kissed almost
with devotion, almost with absolute pleasure.
Or, was it her silky, golden hair, her large, blue
eyes, full of enigmas, of curiosity, of desire, her
changeable mouth, which was quite small and infantine
at one moment, when she was pouting, and smiling and
as open as a rose that is unfolding in the sun, when
she opened it in a laugh, and showed her pearly teeth,
so that it became a target for kisses? Who will
ever be able to explain that kind of magic and sorcery
which some Chosen Women exercise over all men,
that despotic authority, against which nobody would
think of rebelling?
Among the numerous men who had entreated her, who
were anxiously waiting for that wonderful moment when
her heart would beat, when his mocking companion would
grow tired and abandon herself to the pleasure of loving
and of being loved, would become intoxicated with the
honey of caresses, and would no longer refuse her
lips to kisses, like some restive animal that fears
the yoke, none had so made up his mind to win the game,
and to pursue this deceptive siege, as much as Xavier
de Fontrailles. He marched straight for his object
with a patient energy and a strength of will which
no checks could weaken, and with the ardent fervor
of a believer who has started on a long pilgrimage,
and who supports all the suffering of the long journey
with the fixed and consoling idea that one day he
will be able to throw himself on his knees at the shrine
where he wishes to worship, and to listen to the divine
words which will be a Paradise to him.
He gave way to Madame d’Ormonde’s slightest
whims, and did all he could never to bore her, never
to hurt her feelings, but really to become a friend
whom she could not do without, and of whom, in the
end, a woman grows more jealous than she does of her
husband, and to whom she confesses everything, her
daily worries and her dreams of the future.
