The large salon, hung and draped with blue velvet, divided by lines
of gold, was full of people ranged in a circle, listening eagerly to
the recital of poem by the author, an Abbe, who stood in the midst,
declaiming each couplet with emphasis, and keeping time with his
foot, while he made gestures with his uplifted hand. Indeed, I
thought at first he was in a furious passion and was going to knock
someone down, till I saw calmly everyone sat; and then again I
fancied we had come to a theatre by mistake; but happily I did not
speak, and, without interrupting the declamation, chairs were given
us, and exchanging a mute salutation with a lady of a noble cast of
beauty, who guided us to seats, we quietly took our places. She was
Julie d'Argennes, the daughter of Madame de Rambouillet. A gentlemen
followed her closely, the Duke of Montausier, who adored her, but
whom she could not yet decide on accepting.
I found it difficult to fit from laughing as the gestures of the
Abbe, especially when I thought of my brother and how they would mock
them; but I knew that this would be unpardonable bad taste, and as I
had come in too late to have the clue to the discourse, I amused
myself with looking about me.
Perhaps the most striking figure was that of the hostess, with her
stately figure, and face, not only full of intellect, but of
something that went far beyond it, and came out of some other higher
world, to which she was trying to raise this one.
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