"But my dear Montcornet, we are a couple of simpletons.
That face is still too ingenuous, there is too much youth and
freshness on the brow and temples for her to be married. What splendid
flesh-tints! Nothing has sunk in the modeling of the nose. Lips, chin,
everything in her face is as fresh as a white rosebud, though the
expression is veiled, as it were, by the clouds of sadness. Who can it
be that makes that young creature weep?"
"Women cry for so little," said the Colonel.
"I do not know," replied Martial; "but she does not cry because she is
left there without a partner; her grief is not of to-day. It is
evident that she has beautified herself for this evening with
intention. I would wager that she is in love already."
"Bah! She is perhaps the daughter of some German princeling; no one
talks to her," said Montcornet.
"Dear! how unhappy a poor child may be!" Martial went on. "Can there
be anything more graceful and refined than our little stranger? Well,
not one of those furies who stand round her, and who believe that they
can feel, will say a word to her.
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