Cerise: A Tale of the Last CenturyWhyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
General
Cerise: A Tale of the Last Century
Whyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
Historical fiction
Ladies cannot be expected to sorrow as inconsolably for a mate of seventy
as for one of seven-and-twenty, but the Marquise de Montmirail grieved
very honestly, nevertheless, and mourned during the prescribed period,
with perhaps even more circumspection than had she lost a lover as well
as, or instead of, a husband. Wagers were laid at Court that she would
marry again within a year; yet the year passed by and Madame had not
so much as seen anybody but her child and its _bonne_. Even Malletort
was excluded from her society, and that versatile ecclesiastic, though
pluming himself on his knowledge of human nature, including its most
inexplicable half, was obliged to confess he was at a loss!
“_Peste!_” he would observe, taking a pinch of snuff, and flicking the
particles delicately off his ruffles, “was not the sphinx a woman? At
least down to the waist. So, I perceive, is the Marquise. What would you
have? There is a clue to every labyrinth, but it is not always worth
while to puzzle it out!”
After a time, when the established period for seclusion had expired, the
widow, more beautiful than ever, made her appearance once more at Court.
That she loved admiration there could not now be the slightest doubt, and
the self-denial became at length apparent with which she had declined
it during her husband’s lifetime, that she might not wring his kind old
heart. So, in all societies—at balls, at promenades, at concerts—at
solemn attendances on the king, at tedious receptions of princes
and princesses, dukes and duchesses, sons and daughters of majesty,
legitimate or otherwise—she accepted homage with avidity, and returned
compliment for compliment, and gallantry for gallantry, with a coquetry
perfectly irresistible. But this was all: the first step was fatal taken
by an admirer across that scarce perceptible boundary which divides the
gold and silver grounds, the gaudy flower-beds of flattery from the
sweet wild violet banks of love. The first tremble of interest in his
voice, the first quiver of diffidence in his glance, was the signal for
dismissal.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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