A Daughter of Eve

the bliss of loving Raoul. The most trivial things in life had now a charm for her. The boudoir in which she dreamed of him became a sanctuary. Even her pretty writing-table recalled to her the countless joys of correspondence; there she would have to read, to hide, his letters; there reply to them. Dress, that splendid poem of a woman’s life, the significance of which she had either exhausted or ignored, now appeared to her full of a magic hitherto unknown. Suddenly it became to her what it is to all women⁠—a continuous expression of the inner thought, a language, a symbol. What wealth of delight in a costume designed for his pleasure, in his honor! She threw herself with all simplicity into those charming nothings which make the business of a Paris woman’s life, and which charge with meaning every detail in her house, her person, her clothes. Rare indeed are the women who frequent dress shops, milliners, and fashionable tailors simply for their own pleasure. As they become old they cease to think of dress. Scrutinize the face which in passing you see for a moment arrested before a shopfront: “Would he like me better in this?” are the words written plain in the clearing brow, in eyes sparkling with hope, and in the smile that plays upon the lips.

Lady Dudley’s ball took place on a Saturday evening; on the Monday the Countess went to the opera, allured by the certainty of seeing Raoul. Raoul, in fact, was there, planted on one of the staircases which lead down to the amphitheatre stalls. He lowered his eyes as the Countess entered her box. With what ecstasy did Mme. de Vandenesse observe the unwonted carefulness of her lover’s attire! This contemner of the laws of elegance might be seen with well-brushed hair, which shone with scent in the recesses of every curl, a fashionable waistcoat, a well-fastened tie, and an immaculate shirtfront. Under the yellow gloves, which were the order of the day, his hands showed very white. Raoul kept his arms crossed over his breast, as though posing for his portrait, superbly indifferent to the whole house, which murmured with barely restrained impatience. His eyes, though bent on the ground, seemed turned towards the red velvet bar on which Marie’s arm rested. Félix, seated in the opposite corner of the box, had his back to Nathan. The Countess had been adroit enough to place herself so that she looked straight down on the pillar against which Raoul leaned. In a single hour, then, Marie had brought this clever man to abjure his cynicism in dress. The humblest, as well as the most distinguished, woman must feel her head turned by the first open declaration of her power in such a transformation. Every change is a confession of servitude.

“They were right, there is a great happiness in being understood,” she said to herself, calling to mind her unworthy instructors.

When the two lovers had scanned the house in a rapid all-embracing survey, they exchanged a glance of intelligence. For both it was as though a heavenly dew had fallen with cooling power upon their fevered suspense. “I have been in hell for an hour; now the heavens open,” spoke the eyes of Raoul.

“I knew you were there, but am I free?” replied those of the Countess.

None but slaves of every variety, including thieves, spies, lovers, and diplomatists, know all that a flash of the eye can convey of information or delight. They alone can grasp the intelligence, the sweetness, the humor, the wrath, and the malice with which this changeful lightning of the soul is pregnant. Raoul felt his passion kick against the pricks of necessity and grow more vigorous in presence of obstacles. Between the step on which he was perched and the box of the Comtesse Félix de Vandenesse was a space of barely thirty feet, impassable for him. To a passionate man who, so far in his life, had known but little interval between desire and satisfaction, this abyss of solid ground, which could not be spanned, inspired a wild desire to spring upon the Countess in a tiger-like bound. In a paroxysm of fury he tried to feel his way. He bowed openly to the Countess, who replied with a slight, scornful inclination of the head, such as women use for snubbing their admirers. Félix turned to see who had greeted his wife, and perceiving Nathan, of whom he took no notice beyond a mute inquiry as to the cause of this liberty, turned slowly away again, with some words probably approving of his wife’s assumed coldness. Plainly the door of the box was barred against Nathan, who hurled a threatening glance at Félix, which it required no great wit to interpret by one of Florine’s sallies, “Look out for your hat; it will soon not rest on your head!”

Mme. d’Espard, one of the most insolent women of her time, who had been watching these manoeuvres from her box, now raised her voice in some meaningless bravo. Raoul, who was standing beneath her, turned. He bowed, and received in return a gracious smile, which so clearly said, “If you are dismissed there, come to me!” that Raoul left his column and went to pay a visit to Mme. d’Espard. He wanted to be seen there in order to show that fellow Vandenesse that his fame was equal to a patent of nobility, and that before Nathan blazoned doors flew open. The Marchioness made him sit down in the front of the box opposite to her. She intended to play the inquisitor.

“Mme. Félix de Vandenesse looks charming tonight,” she said, congratulating him on the lady’s dress, as though it were a book he had just published.

“Yes,” said Raoul carelessly, “marabouts are very becoming to her. But she is too constant, she wore them the day before yesterday,” he added, with an easy air, as though by his critical attitude to repudiate the flattering complicity which the Marchioness