Her young husband
did not strike me much at first sight; he seemed rather shy and
silent. After I had been introduced to him, I looked round for
Mademoiselle Clairfait, but she was not present; and I was soon
afterward informed by Mr. Lanfray that she always spent the
latter part of the evening in her own room.
At the breakfast-table the next morning, I again looked for my
sitter, and once more in vain. "Mamma, as we call her," said one
of the ladies, "is dressing expressly for her picture, Mr. Kerby.
I hope you are not above painting silk, lace, and jewelry. The
dear old lady, who is perfection in everything else, is
perfection also in dress, and is bent on being painted in all her
splendor."
This explanation prepared me for something extraordinary; but I
found that my anticipations had fallen far below the reality when
Mademoiselle Clairfait at last made her appearance, and announced
that she was ready to sit for her portrait.
Never before or since have I seen such perfect dressing and such
active old age in combination. "Mademoiselle" was short and thin;
her face was perfectly white all over, the skin being puckered up
in an infinite variety of the smallest possible wrinkles. Her
bright black eyes were perfect marvels of youthfulness and
vivacity. They sparkled, and beamed, and ogled, and moved about
over everybody and everything at such a rate, that the plain gray
hair above them looked unnaturally venerable, and the wrinkles
below an artful piece of masquerade to represent old age.
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