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hereditary pretensions are solemnly recorded year by year in the

Almanach de Gotha, wherefore without some slight sketch of each



of them this picture of society were incomplete.

The Princesse de Blamont-Chauvry, in the feminine world, was a



most poetic wreck of the reign of Louis Quinze. In her beautiful

prime, so it was said, she had done her part to win for that



monarch his appellation of le Bien-aime. Of her past charms of

feature, little remained save a remarkablyprominentslender



nose, curved like a Turkish scimitar, now the principal ornament

of a countenance that put you in mind of an old white glove. Add



a few powdered curls, high-heeled pantoufles, a cap with

upstanding loops of lace, black mittens, and a decided taste for



ombre. But to do full justice to the lady, it must be said that

she appeared in low-necked gowns of an evening (so high an



opinion of her ruins had she), wore long gloves, and raddled her

cheeks with Martin's classic rouge. An appalling amiability in



her wrinkles, a prodigiousbrightness in the old lady's eyes, a

profound dignity in her whole person, together with the triple



barbed wit of her tongue, and an infallible memory in her head,

made of her a real power in the land. The whole Cabinet des



Chartes was entered in duplicate on the parchment of her brain.

She knew all the genealogies of every noble house in



Europe--princes, dukes, and counts--and could put her hand on the

last descendants of Charlemagne in the direct line. No



usurpation of title could escape the Princesse de

Blamont-Chauvry.



Young men who wished to stand well at Court, ambitious men, and

young married women paid her assiduous homage. Her salon set the



tone of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. The words of this Talleyrand

in petticoats were taken as final decrees. People came to



consult her on questions of etiquette or usages, or to take

lessons in good taste. And, in truth, no other old woman could



put back her snuff-box in her pocket as the Princess could; while

there was a precision and a grace about the movements of her



skirts, when she sat down or crossed her feet, which drove the

finest ladies of the young generation to despair. Her voice had



remained in her head during one-third of her lifetime; but she

could not prevent a descent into the membranes of the nose, which



lent to it a peculiar expressiveness. She still retained a

hundred and fifty thousand livres of her great fortune, for



Napoleon had generously returned her woods to her; so that

personally and in the matter of possessions she was a woman of no



little consequence.

This curious antique, seated in a low chair by the fireside, was



chatting with the Vidame de Pamiers, a contemporary ruin. The

Vidame was a big, tall, and spare man, a seigneur of the old



school, and had been a Commander of the Order of Malta. His neck

had always been so tightlycompressed by a strangulation stock,



that his cheeks pouched over it a little, and he held his head

high; to many people this would have given an air of



self-sufficiency, but in the Vidame it was justified by a

Voltairean wit. His wide prominent eyes seemed to see



everything, and as a matter of fact there was not much that they

had not seen. Altogether, his person was a perfect model of



aristocraticoutline, slim and slender, supple and agreeable. He

seemed as if he could be pliant or rigid at will, and twist and



bend, or rear his head like a snake.

The Duc de Navarreins was pacing up and down the room with the



Duc de Grandlieu. Both were men of fifty-six or thereabouts, and

still hale; both were short, corpulent, flourishing, somewhat



florid-complexioned men with jaded eyes, and lower lips that had

begun to hang already. But for an exquisiterefinement of






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