Madame the Viscountess was not young, but she was not the least beautiful object in those stately rooms.

She had married into a race of nobles who (themselves famed for personal beauty) had been scrupulous in the choice of lovely wives.

The late Viscount (for Madame was a widow) had been one of the handsomest of the gay courtiers of his day; and Madame had not been unworthy of him.

Even now, though the roses on her cheeks were more entirely artificial than they had been in the days of her youth, she was like some exquisite piece of porcelain.

Standing by the embroidery frame was Madame's only child, a boy who, in spite of his youth, was already Monsieur the Viscount.