French fiction -- Translations into English; Love -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction
It was a cheerless looking room, and one which revealed the simplicity
of a life reduced to its strictest wants. Oak shelves overladen with
books, the mere appearance of which indicated official publications, ran
along two sides. Some maps and a few weapon-trophies adorned the rest. A
writing-table placed in the centre of the apartment displayed papers
classified in groups--notes for the great work which the Count had been
preparing for an indefinite time on the reorganisation of the army. Two
lustring sleeves, methodically folded, lay among the squares and rulers;
a bust of Marshal Bugeaud adorned the fireplace, which was furnished
with a grate, in which a coke fire was dying out.
The tile-paved floor was tinted red, and the carpet scarcely extended
beyond the legs of the table which rested upon them. On the table stood
a bright copper lamp, which was lighted at the present moment, and the
green cardboard shade threw the light upon the face of young Liauran,
who was seated beside it in the straw arm-chair, and was looking at the
fire, with his chin resting on his hand. He was so absorbed in his
reverie that he appeared to have heard neither the rolling of the
carriage-wheels nor the General's entrance into the apartment. Never,
moreover, had the latter been so struck as he was just then with the
astonishing likeness presented by the physiognomy of the child with that
of the two women by whom he had been brought up.
If Madame Liauran appeared more frail than her mother, and less capable
of coping with the bitterness of life, this fragility was still more
exaggerated in Hubert. The thin cloth of his dress-coat--for he was in
evening dress, with a white nosegay in his button-hole--allowed the
outlines of his slender shoulders to be seen. The fingers extended
across his temple were as delicate as a woman's. The paleness of his
complexion, which, owing to the extreme regularity of his life, was
usually tinged with pink, betrayed, in this hour of sadness, the depth
of vibration awakened by all emotion in this too delicate organism.
There were deep, nacreous circles round his handsome black eyes; but, at
the same time, a touch of pride in the line of the nobly-cut forehead
and almost perfectly straight nose, the curve of the lips with its
slender dark moustache, the set of the chin marked with a manly dimple,
and other tokens still, such as the bar of the knitted eyebrows,
betrayed the heredity of a race of action in the over-petted child of
two lovely women.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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