Pauline, as she passed through the anteroom, wiped the last tears from her eyes, and on entering the saloon, advanced towards a mirror which hung between the windows, as if to ascertain what traces they had left behind. The soubrette did not fail to advance, in order to adjust her young lady's dress, and finding herself once more in the exercise of her functions, the right of chattering seemed equally restored; for she commenced immediately, beginning in a low and respectful voice, but gradually increasing as the thought of her mistress was swallowed up in the more comprehensive idea of herself. "Oh, dear Mademoiselle," said she, "I am so glad you are come at last. This place is so sad and so dull! Who would think it was a court? Why, I expected to see it all filled with lords and ladies, and instead of that, I have seen nothing but dismal-looking men, who go gliding about in silence, seeming afraid to open their lips, as if that cruel old Cardinal, whom they all tremble at, could hear every word they say. I did see one fine-looking gentleman this morning, to be sure, with his servants all in beautiful liveries of blue and gold, and horses as if there were fire coming out of their very eyes; but he rode away to hunt, after he had been half an hour with the Queen and Mademoiselle de Hauteford, as they call her." "Mademoiselle who?" exclaimed Pauline, quickly, as if startled from her reverie by something curious in the name. "Who did you say, Louise?" "Oh, such a pretty young lady!" replied the waiting-woman. "Mademoiselle de Hauteford is her name. I saw her this morning as she went to the Queen's levee. She has eyes as blue as the sky, and teeth like pearls themselves; but withal she looks as cold and as proud as if she were the Queen's own self." While the soubrette spoke, Pauline raised her large dark eyes to the tall Venetian mirror which stood before her, and which had never reflected any thing lovelier than herself, as hastily she passed her fair small hand across her brow, brushing back the glossy ringlets that hung clustering over her forehead. But she was tired and pale with fatigue and anxiety; her eyes, too, bore the traces of tears, and with a sigh and look of dissatisfaction, she turned away from the mirror, which, like every other invention of human vanity, often procures us disappointment as well as gratification. Madame de Beaumont's eyes had been fixed upon Pauline; and translating her daughter's looks with the instinctive acuteness of a mother, she approached with more gentleness than was her wont. "You are beautiful enough, my Pauline," said she, pressing a kiss upon her cheek; "you are beautiful enough. Do not fear." "Nay, Mamma," replied Pauline, "I have nothing to fear, either from possessing or from wanting beauty."