It was the day of Madame de St. Cyr’s dinner, an event I never missed; for, the mistress of a mansion in the Faubourg St. Germain, there still lingered about her the exquisite grace and good-breeding peculiar to the old regime, that insensibly communicates itself to the guests till they move in an atmosphere of ease that constitutes the charm of home.  One was always sure of meeting desirable and well-assorted people here, and a contre-temps was impossible.  Moreover, the house was not at the command of all; and Madame de St. Cyr, with the daring strength which, when found in a woman at all, should, to be endurable, be combined with a sweet but firm restraint, rode rough-shod over the parvenus of the Empire, and was resolute enough to insulate herself even among the old noblesse, who, as all the world knows, insulate themselves from the rest of France.  There were rare qualities in this woman, and were I to have selected one who with an even hand should carry a snuffy candle through a magazine of powder, my choice would have devolved upon her; and she would have done it.

I often looked, and not unsuccessfully, to discern what heritage her daughter had in these little affairs.  Indeed, to one like myself Delphine presented the worthier study.  She wanted the airy charm of manner, the suavity and tenderness of her mother,—­a deficiency easily to be pardoned in one of such delicate and extraordinary beauty.  And perhaps her face was the truest index of her mind; not that it ever transparently displayed a genuine emotion,—­Delphine was too well-bred for that,—­but the outline of her features had a keen, regular precision, as if cut in a gem.  Her exquisite color seldom varied, her eyes were like blue steel, she was statue-like and stony.  But had one paused there, pronouncing her hard and impassive, he had committed an error.  She had no great capability for passion, but she was not to be deceived; one metallic flash of her eye would cut like a sword through the whole mesh of entanglements with which you had surrounded her; and frequently, when alone with her, you perceived cool recesses in her nature, sparkling and pleasant, which jealously guarded themselves from a nearer approach.  She was infinitely spirituelle; compared to her, Madame herself was heavy.

At the first I had seen that Delphine must be the wife of a diplomate.  What diplomate?  For a time asking myself the question seriously, I decided in the negative, which did not, however, prevent Delphine from fulfilling her destiny, since there were others.  She was, after all, like a draught of rich old wine, all fire and sweetness.  These things were not generally seen in her; I was more favored than many; and I looked at her with pitiless perspicacious eyes.  Nevertheless, I had not the least advantage; it was, in fact, between us, diamond cut diamond, —­which, oddly enough, brings me back to my story.