Mademoiselle, whose heart was beating like a lizard caught by a herdsman, sat heroically still on her sofa, beside the fire in the salon.Josette opened the door; and the Vicomte de Troisville, followed by the Abbe de Sponde, presented himself to the eyes of the spinster.
"Niece, this is Monsieur le Vicomte de Troisville, the grandson of one of my old schoolmates; Monsieur de Troisville, my niece, Mademoiselle Cormon.""Ah! that good uncle; how well he does it!" thought Rose-Marie-Victoire.
The Vicomte de Troisville was, to paint him in two words, du Bousquier ennobled.Between the two men there was precisely the difference which separates the vulgar style from the noble style.If they had both been present, the most fanatic liberal would not have denied the existence of aristocracy.The viscount's strength had all the distinction of elegance; his figure had preserved its magnificent dignity.He had blue eyes, black hair, an olive skin, and looked to be about forty-six years of age.You might have thought him a handsome Spaniard preserved in the ice of Russia.His manner, carriage, and attitude, all denoted a diplomat who had seen Europe.His dress was that of a well-bred traveller.As he seemed fatigued, the abbe offered to show him to his room, and was much amazed when his niece threw open the door of the boudoir, transformed into a bedroom.