It is certain that the painter of the divine Marquise Paola Brignole, of the Red Palace at Genoa, never found a model more suited to his genius. His brush alone could have properly reproduced the glory of that tint whose dead white was not anæmic—the red lips told that—with the cloud of blonde hair which paled in the light. The simple sight of the thick rolls of golden hair lying upon her neck, when she turned her head, betokened that physiological vitality of one of those slender persons who conceal beneath the tenderness of a siren the courage of a captain of dragoons. Her neck, though a little long, was well developed, and the fingers of her nervous hands were a little long also; her bust, which was outlined at each movement by her supple white corsage, was so young, so elegant, and so full. But the most significant thing to me about this creature of luxury was her blue eyes, as blue as those of the other woman, with this difference, that the blue of Camille Favier’s eyes recalled the blue of the petals of a flower; while Madam de Bonnivet’s eyes were the azure of metal or precious stone. They gave one the idea of something implacable, in spite of their charm, something hard and frigidly dangerous in their magnetism. To complete this singular sensation of graceful cruelty, when the young woman laughed her lips were raised a little too much at the corners displaying sharp white teeth close together, almost too small, like those of a precious animal of the chase. In to-day trying to exactly reproduce the impressions, which I felt in the presence of Jacques Molan’s two partners in his favourite game of heartless love, I am taking into account that my actual knowledge of their characters influences my recollection of this first meeting. I do not think I am giving too powerful a touch to this souvenir. I can still hear myself say, while applause was being showered upon little Favier, to Jacques— “You make a good choice, when you like.” “I do what I can,” he said as he nodded his head. “I am asking myself,” I continued, “with mistresses of such beauty——” “One mistress,” he corrected me. “Madam de Bonnivet is not my mistress.” “It comes to the same thing, as far as it concerns what I am going to say. I am asking myself, how you manage to escape scandal.” “I am like Proudhon,” he replied with a laugh, “whom Hugo pretended had the skin of a toad in his pocket. It appears that this charm protects one from every danger.” “Do you think your luck will hold? Then what of the women themselves?” “Larcher has an axiom: 'a woman is the best antidote against another woman.’” “But the result of that is spiteful vengeance, vitriol, and the revolver. One of these two women, I should not trust.” As I said that, I pointed with my cane to Madam Bonnivet.