and graceful threnodies! But a woman grown old, who has outlived
all passion and is a mere bundle of fat, or a mummy of skin and
bone,--what poetry does her existence suggest? How can she appeal
to art or sentiment? She is a misery to herself and an eyesore to
others. Yes, Princess, believe me,--Love first, and Death
afterwards, are woman's best friends."

"You believe in Death?" ask the Princess, looking steadily at him.

"It is the only thing I do believe in," he answered lightly. "It
is a fact that will bear examination, but not contradiction. May I
ask you to turn your head slightly to the left--so! Yes, that will
do; if I can catch the look in your eyes that gleams there now,--
the look of intense, burning, greedy cruelty which is so
murderously fascinating, I shall be content."

He seated himself opposite to her, and, putting down his palette,
took up his canvas, and posing it on his knee, began drawing the
first rough outline of his sketch in charcoal. She, meanwhile,
leaning against heaped-up cushions of amber satin, remained
silent.

"You are not a vain woman," he pursued, "or you would resent my
description of your eyes. 'Greedy cruelty' is not a pretty
expression, nor would it be considered complimentary by the
majority of the fair sex. Yet, from my point of view, it is the
highest flattery I can pay you, for I adore the eyes of savage
animals, and the beautiful eye of the forest-beast is in your
head,--diableresse charmante comme vous etes! I wonder what gives
you such an insatiate love of vengeance?"