Francine could not
explain to herself the mocking gaiety of her mistress. It was not the
joy of love,--a woman never mistakes that; it was rather an expression
of concentrated maliciousness, which to Francine's mind boded evil.
Marie herself drew the curtains of the window from which the glorious
panorama could be seen, then she moved the sofa to the chimney corner,
turning it so that the light would fall becomingly on her face; then
she told Francine to fetch flowers, that the room might have a festive
air; and when they came she herself directed their arrangement in a
picturesque manner. Giving a last glance of satisfaction at these
various preparations she sent Francine to the commandant with a
request that he would bring her prisoner to her; then she lay down
luxuriously on a sofa, partly to rest, and partly to throw herself
into an attitude of graceful weakness, the power of which is
irresistible in certain women. A soft languor, the seductive pose of
her feet just seen below the drapery of her gown, the plastic ease of
her body, the curving of the throat,--all, even the droop of her
slender fingers as they hung from the pillow like the buds of a bunch
of jasmine, combined with her eyes to produce seduction. She burned
certain perfumes to fill the air with those subtle emanations which
affect men's fibres powerfully, and often prepare the way for
conquests which women seek to make without seeming to desire them.
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