But Madame Lia d'Argeles defied all analysis. She was one of
those women whose uncertain age varies according to their mood,
between the thirties and the fifties; one who did not look over
thirty in the evening, but who would have been charged with being
more than fifty the next morning. In her youth she must have been
very beautiful, and she was still good-looking, though she had
grown somewhat stout, and her face had become a trifle heavy, thus
marring the symmetry of her very delicate features. A perfect
blonde, she had eyes of so clear a blue that they seemed almost
faded. The whiteness of her skin was so unnatural that it almost
startled one. It was the dull, lifeless white which suggests an
excessive use of cosmetics and rice powder, and long baths, late
hours, and sleep at day-time, in a darkened room. Her face was
utterly devoid of expression. One might have fancied that its
muscles had become relaxed after terrible efforts to feign or to
conceal some violent emotions; and there was something melancholy,
almost terrifying in the eternal, and perhaps involuntary smile,
which curved her lips. She wore a dress of black velvet, with
slashed sleeves and bodice, a new design of the famous man-
milliner, Van Klopen.
Pascal was engaged in these observations when M. de Coralth,
having made his round, came and sat down on the sofa beside him.
"Well, what do you think of it?" he inquired.
"Upon my word!" replied the young advocate, "I am infinitely
obliged to you for inviting me to accompany you here.
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