Madame Bentzon is a novelist, translator, and writer
of literary essays. The list of her works runs
as follows: ’Le Roman d’un Muet (1868);
Un Divorce (1872); La Grande Sauliere (1877); Un remords
(1878); Yette and Georgette (1880); Le Retour (1882);
Tete folle (1883); Tony, (1884); Emancipee (1887);
Constance (1891); Jacqueline (1893). We need not
enter into the merits of style and composition if
we mention that ’Un remords, Tony, and Constance’
were crowned by the French Academy, and ‘Jacqueline’
in 1893. Madame Bentzon is likewise the translator
of Aldrich, Bret Harte, Dickens, and Ouida. Some
of her critical works are ’Litterature et Moeurs
etrangeres’, 1882, and ‘Nouveaux romanciers
americains’, 1885.
M.
THUREAU-DANGIN
de
l’Academie Francaise.
A PARISIENNE’S “At home”
Despite a short frock, checked stockings, wide turned-over
collar, and a loose sash around the waist of her blouse
in other words, despite the childish fashion of a
dress which seemed to denote that she was not more
than thirteen or fourteen years of age, she seemed
much older. An observer would have put her down
as the oldest of the young girls who on Tuesdays,
at Madame de Nailles’s afternoons, filled what
was called “the young girls’ corner”
with whispered merriment and low laughter, while,
under pretence of drinking tea, the noise went on which
is always audible when there is anything to eat.
No doubt the amber tint of this young girl’s
complexion, the raven blackness of her hair, her marked
yet delicate features, and the general impression
produced by her dark coloring, were reasons why she
seemed older than the rest. It was Jacqueline’s
privilege to exhibit that style of beauty which comes
earliest to perfection, and retains it longest; and,
what was an equal privilege, she resembled no one.
The deep bow-window—her favorite spot—which
enabled her to have a reception-day in connection
with that of her mamma, seemed like a great basket
of roses when all her friends assembled there, seated
on low chairs in unstudied attitudes: the white
rose of the group was Mademoiselle d’Etaples,
a specimen of pale and pensive beauty, frail almost
to transparency; the Rose of Bengal was the charming
Colette Odinska, a girl of Polish race, but born in
Paris; the dark-red rose was Isabelle Ray-Belle she
was called triumphantly—whose dimpled cheeks
flushed scarlet for almost any cause, some said for
very coquetry. Then there were three little girls
called Wermant, daughters of an agent de change—a
spray of May roses, exactly alike in features, manners,
and dress, sprightly and charming as little girls
could be. A little pompon rose was tiny Dorothee
d’Avrigny, to whom the pet name Dolly was appropriate,
for never had any doll’s waxen face been more
lovely than her little round one, with its mouth shaped
like a little heart—a mouth smaller than
her eyes, and these were round eyes, too, but so bright,
and blue, and soft, that it was easy to overlook their
too frequently startled expression.
