It was the face of a girl naturally of a cheerful nature, but newly made
acquainted with sorrow. Grief had not rendered the nature, or the face,
unresponsive to transient impressions of a pleasant or mirthful kind.
Hers was one of those hearts in which grief does not exclude all
possibility of gaiety. Sorrow might lie at the bottom, never forgotten
and never entirely concealed, but merriment might ripple on the surface.
As for its outlines, the face, in every part, harmonized with the grace
and purity of the chin and mouth. Her eyes were blue and large, with an
eloquence displayed without intent or consciousness.
"What does it mean?" she said, in a charming bewilderment. "The servant
reproves the master. Ah! I see! The servant _is_ the master."
And she smiled with pleasure at her discovery.
"But still _your_ servant, mademoiselle," was all that I could say.
Blaise vented a great breath of relief. "I feel better now," he said,
heartily, and he turned with a beaming countenance to the maid, who
looked at his stalwart form and promptly revised her opinion of him. The
two were soon in conversation together, at the fireplace, and I was left
to complete explanations with the lady, who did not attempt the coquetry
of replacing her mask.
"Our secret is yours, mademoiselle, and our safety is in your hands."
"Your secret is safe, monsieur," she said, modestly averting her eyes
from my frankly admiring look.
Pages:
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190