Over the great carved fireplace, however, hung a painting upon which my attention became riveted as soon as I entered the room--a painting yellow with age; covered with those minute cracks which are like wrinkles on the face of antique art, coated with dust, and yet so singularly attractive that, having once noticed it, I looked at nothing else.
It was the half-length portrait of a young lady in the costume of the reign of Louis XVI.

One hand rested on a stone urn; the other was raised to her bosom, holding a thin blue scarf that seemed to flutter in the wind.

Her dress was of white satin, cut low and square, with a stomacher of lace and pearls.

She also wore pearls in her hair, on her white arms, and on her whiter neck.

Thus much for the mere adjuncts; as for the face--ah, how can I ever describe that pale, perfect, tender face, with its waving brown hair and soft brown eyes, and that steadfast perpetual smile that seemed to light the eyes from within, and to dwell in the corners of the lips without parting or moving them?
It was like a face seen in a dream, or the imperfect image which seems to come between us and the page when we read of Imogen asleep.
"Who was this lady ?" I asked, eagerly.
The _concierge_ nodded and rubbed her hands.
"Aha! M'sieur," said she, "'tis the best painting in the chateau, as folks tell me.