She was dressed in
mourning, in a black silk dress trimmed with black lace round the neck
and the skirt. This profusion of lace, rumpled by the cushions of the
sofa to which her indolent and languid life confined her, hung around
her like the black and clustering bunches of the elder, shedding its
berries in the autumnal wind. The dark color of her gown left only her
shoulders, neck, and face in light, and the mourning of her dress
seemed completed by the natural mourning of her dark hair, which was
gathered up at the back of her head. This uniformity of color added to
her height, and showed to advantage her graceful and flexible figure.
The reflection of the fire in the glass, the light of the lamp on the
chimney-piece striking on her cheek, and the animation of impatient
expectation and love, shed on her countenance a splendor of youth,
bloom, and life, which seemed a transfiguration effected by love.
My first exclamation was one of joy and delighted surprise at seeing
her thus, more living, lovely, and immortal, in my eyes, than I had
ever seen her in the brightest days of Savoy.
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