This explanation prepared me for something extraordinary; but I found that my anticipations had fallen far below the reality when Mademoiselle Clairfait at last made her appearance, and announced that she was ready to sit for her portrait.

Never before or since have I seen such perfect dressing and such active old age in combination.  “Mademoiselle” was short and thin; her face was perfectly white all over, the skin being puckered up in an infinite variety of the smallest possible wrinkles.  Her bright black eyes were perfect marvels of youthfulness and vivacity.  They sparkled, and beamed, and ogled, and moved about over everybody and everything at such a rate, that the plain gray hair above them looked unnaturally venerable, and the wrinkles below an artful piece of masquerade to represent old age.  As for her dress, I remember few harder pieces of work than the painting of it.  She wore a silver-gray silk gown that seemed always flashing out into some new light whenever she moved.  It was as stiff as a board, and rustled like the wind.  Her head, neck, and bosom were enveloped in clouds of the airiest-looking lace I ever saw, disposed about each part of her with the most exquisite grace and propriety, and glistening at all sorts of unexpected places with little fairy-like toys in gold and precious stones.  On her right wrist she wore three small bracelets, with the hair of her three pupils worked into them; and on her left, one large bracelet with a miniature let in over the clasp.  She had a dark crimson and gold scarf thrown coquettishly over her shoulders, and held a lovely little feather-fan in her hand.  When she first presented herself before me in this costume, with a brisk courtesy and a bright smile, filling the room with perfume, and gracefully flirting the feather-fan, I lost all confidence in my powers as a portrait-painter immediately.  The brightest colors in my box looked dowdy and dim, and I myself felt like an unwashed, unbrushed, unpresentable sloven.

“Tell me, my angels,” said mademoiselle, apostrophizing her pupils in the prettiest foreign English, “am I the cream of all creams this morning?  Do I carry my sixty years resplendently?  Will the savages in India, when my own love exhibits my picture among them, say, ‘Ah! smart! smart! this was a great dandy?’ And the gentleman, the skillful artist, whom it is even more an honor than a happiness to meet, does he approve of me for a model?  Does he find me pretty and paintable from top to toe?” Here she dropped me another brisk courtesy, placed herself in a languishing position in the sitter’s chair, and asked us all if she looked like a shepherdess in Dresden china.

The young ladies burst out laughing, and mademoiselle, as gay as any of them and a great deal shriller, joined in the merriment.  Never before had I contended with any sitter half as restless as that wonderful old lady.  No sooner had I begun than she jumped out of the chair, and exclaiming, “Grand Dieu! I have forgotten to embrace my angels this morning,” ran up to her pupils, raised herself on tiptoe before them in quick succession, put the two first fingers of each hand under their ears, kissed them lightly on both cheeks, and was back again in the chair before an English governess could have said, “Good-morning, my dears, I hope you all slept well last night.”