The stranger, alone and absorbed in thought, leaned lightly against
one of the columns that supported the roof; his arms were folded, and
he leaned slightly on one side as though he had placed himself there
to have his portrait taken by a painter. His attitude, though full of
elegance and dignity, was devoid of affectation. Nothing suggested
that he had half turned his head, and bent it a little to the right
like Alexander, or Lord Byron, and some other great men, for the sole
purpose of attracting attention. His fixed gaze followed a girl who
was dancing, and betrayed some strong feeling. His slender, easy frame
recalled the noble proportions of the Apollo. Fine black hair curled
naturally over a high forehead. At a glance Mademoiselle de Fontaine
observed that his linen was fine, his gloves fresh, and evidently
bought of a good maker, and his feet were small and well shod in boots
of Irish kid. He had none of the vulgar trinkets displayed by the
dandies of the National Guard or the Lovelaces of the counting-house.
A black ribbon, to which an eye-glass was attached, hung over a
waistcoat of the most fashionable cut. Never had the fastidious Emilie
seen a man's eyes shaded by such long, curled lashes. Melancholy and
passion were expressed in this face, and the complexion was of a manly
olive hue. His mouth seemed ready to smile, unbending the corners of
eloquent lips; but this, far from hinting at gaiety, revealed on the
contrary a sort of pathetic grace. There was too much promise in that
head, too much distinction in his whole person, to allow of one's
saying, "What a handsome man!" or "What a fine man!" One wanted to
know him. The most clear-sighted observer, on seeing this stranger,
could not have helped taking him for a clever man attracted to this
rural festivity by some powerful motive.

All these observations cost Emilie only a minute's attention, during