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intimate with his mind, and my cousin's praises with his heart."
“I had rather," replied the Count, “ be judged by my heart than by my mind; the one has often erred, but the other never."
He smiled and bowed, and Augusta fancied she read in his eyes the power of her charms. But a graceful and beautiful coquette was nothing new to De Villeneuve. Such forms, perhaps not quite so perfect, and such faces, or, if not faces so lovely, at least expressions as arch and winning, were familiar to him in every Parisian salon. It was on Ellen his eyes rested with the delight with which Parisian eyes dwell upon something new-on Ellen, who had taken no pains to captivate him, and had not even thought it worth her while to change the morning dress, her still lingering indisposition excused
She was lying on a couch, attentively reading—so much so that she did not hear the friends announced. De Villeneuve's rapid glance recognised the book, a romantic tale of his, which he had given to Julian. Already, with a Frenchman's quick amour propre, he liked her for being so engrossed by a work of his. Her face had not the dazzling beauty of Augusta's, yet was it soft and regular — a sort of face Westall delighted to draw—the broad, full, but not high brow, the small straight nose, the inexplicable yet all expressive little mouth and small round chin, the large, very blue eyes, placed rather far apart - enough so to give a frank but not a vacant expression. She was somewhat pale from recent illness, and the hand on which she leaned was whiter than a hothouse lily. Her hair, of the gold painters and poets depict, parted on her forehead, fell down either side of her face on the purple velvet shawl wrapped around her, while the “back hair ” was gathered in a thick knot behind.
As she looked up, and, without any feminine affectation or coquettish embarrassment, rose calmly and kindly to welcome her cousin and his friend, the latter of whom felt that she was a being he had faintly imagined and imperfectly portrayed, but never met with before.
She simply said, but without offering her hand, “ I ought to apologize for not being aware of your entrance, but this is my exeuse," pointing to the book, " and one its author will surely admit."
* Vost proud," said De Villeneuve,“ in any way to have caught your eyes, and arrested your thoughts. We poets have many disappointments, many sorrows, but we have, abore all men, the glorious privilege of stealing on Beauty's solitude, and unlocking, with the golden key of poetry, that rich casket of gems, her heart."
Ellen smiled, and raised her frank eyes quite unmored by the ardent admiration of his. She was indeed a rare specimen of a purely English maiden—a mixture of the Psyche and the Madonna, a combination of soul and feeling, frank without boldness, gentle but not inanimate, intellectual without aiming at being so. There is a virgin by Guido, which would resemble her, if, to the holy sweetness of the face, were added the thought and tenderness of a woman not so blest.
As De Villeneuve gazed at her, he felt that his heart was not pure enough to mirror such a nature, but that his intellect was bright enough to understand and appreciate her. Already, with a French poet's talent for turning all things to account, his active fancy had woven her form into a wild web, which was to delight all Paris as soon as he could hurry through two small volumes.
However, this was no place for · reverie. Annie had to be introduced — Annie, who, flushed, squeezed, and scarcely able to turn her head, so tightly had Le Gracieux tied and twisted her hair, had never felt so wretched, nor looked so awkward.
“ Assez jolie mais très-gauche,” said De Villeneuve, when Julian asked his opinion. However, Annie felt all the admiration she did not inspire: if she had thought Julian's small moustache and imperial beautiful, the immense Grammont of De Villeneuve seemed to her finer still. He was not by any means so handsome nor so well made as Julian, but he was more outré, more striking, and taller, He was dressed in the extreme of the romantic school. If Julian's hair hung in ringlets on his collar, De Villeneuves fell on his shoulders. His fine eyes, rather light than dark, but of a strange dazzling light, startled poor Annie; his cheek was pale, his attitudes were studies for a tragedian, his voice was deep, and calculated to wake all the romantic echoes of a young girl's heart, while almost every speech was a sentiment, every expression, poetry. He spoke English with grace and ease ; and, as is common with well-read foreigners, his words were rather those of books than of men, while a foreign accent lent an interest and novelty to what he said.