It is cut
low in the neck, where it is eked out by a creamy fichu. She is
fair, with golden brown hair and grey eyes.
She enters with the self-possession of a woman accustomed to the
privileges of rank and beauty. The innkeeper, who has excellent
natural manners, is highly appreciative of her. Napoleon, on whom
her eyes first fall, is instantly smitten self-conscious. His
color deepens: he becomes stiffer and less at ease than before.
She perceives this instantly, and, not to embarrass him, turns in
an infinitely well bred manner to pay the respect of a glance to
the other gentleman, who is staring at her dress, as at the
earth's final masterpiece of treacherous dissimulation, with
feelings altogether inexpressible and indescribable. As she looks
at him, she becomes deadly pale. There is no mistaking her
expression: a revelation of some fatal error utterly unexpected,
has suddenly appalled her in the midst of tranquillity, security
and victory. The next moment a wave of color rushes up from
beneath the creamy fichu and drowns her whole face. One can see
that she is blushing all over her body.
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