Mademoiselle de Maupin, Volume 2 (of 2)Gautier, Théophile
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Mademoiselle de Maupin, Volume 2 (of 2)
Gautier, Théophile
French fiction -- Translations into English
Everything was combined in the lovely body posing before him;--delicacy
and strength, form and coloring, the outlines of a Grecian statue
of the most glorious days of the art, and the tones of a Titian.--He
saw there, palpable and crystallized, the misty chimera he had tried
so many times to check in its flight--he was not compelled, as he had
complained so bitterly to his friend Silvio, to confine his glances to
some special well-formed portion of the body, and not to look beyond
it, under penalty of seeing something horrible, and his amorous eyes
descended from the head to the feet and ascended from the feet to the
head, always softly caressed by a harmonious, correctly proportioned
line.
The knees were wonderfully pure, the ankles slender and shapely, the
legs and thighs built upon a noble, superb model, the belly as lustrous
as agate, the hips supple and strong, a bosom that might well tempt the
gods to come down from heaven to kiss it, arms and shoulders of the
most magnificent shape;--a torrent of beautiful brown hair, curling
slightly, as in the heads drawn by the old masters, fell in tiny waves
along a back of polished ivory, marvellously heightening the effect of
its whiteness.
The painter satisfied, the lover gained the upper hand; for, however
great one's love of art, there are things which one cannot long remain
contented in looking at.
He took the fair one in his arms and carried her to the bed; in a
twinkling he had undressed himself and jumped in beside her.
Our fair reader of the gentler sex would surely look askance at
her lover if we should disclose the formidable figure attained by
D'Albert's love, assisted by Rosalind's curiosity. Let her remember the
most completely filled and the most delightful of her own nights, the
night when--the night she would remember a hundred thousand days if she
did not die long before; let her put the book beside her and count upon
her pretty white fingers how many times he who loved her best loved
her that night, and thus fill the gap which we leave in this glorious
history.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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