Читать книгу Balsamo, the Magician; or, The Memoirs of a Physician - Александр Дюма, Dumas Alexandre - Страница 10

As Balsamo had warned them, there was no time to lose. On the high road, commonly so peaceful, resounded a great tumult of coaches, horses and voices.

Three carriages stopped at the door, held open by Gilbert, whose distended eyes and feverish tremor denoted the sharpest emotion at so much magnificence. The principal coach, loaded with gilding and mythological carvings, was no less mud-spattered and dusty than the others.

A score of brilliant young noblemen ranked themselves near this coach, out of which was assisted a girl of sixteen by a gentleman clad in black, with the grand sash of the St. Louis order under his coat. She wore no hair powder, but this plainness had not prevented the hairdresser building up her tresses a foot above her forehead.

Marie Antoinette Josepha, for it was she, brought into France a fame for beauty not always owned by princesses destined to share the throne of that realm. Without being fine, her eyes took any expression she liked; but particularly those so opposite as mildness and scorn; her nose was well shaped; her upper lip pretty; but the lower one, the aristocratic inheritance of seventeen kaisers, too thick and protruding, even drooping, did not suit the pretty visage, except when it wanted to show ire or indignation.

On this occasion, Marie Antoinette wore her womanly look and womanly smile, more, that of a happy woman. If possible, she did not mean to be the royal princess till the following day. The sweetest calm reigned on her face; the most charming kindness enlivened her eyes.

She was robed in white silk, and her handsome bare arms supported a heavy lace mantle.

She refused the arm of the gentleman in black, and freely advanced, snuffing the air, and casting glances around as though wishful to enjoy brief liberty.

"Oh, the lovely site! What fine old trees! and the pretty little house!" she ejaculated. "How happy they must dwell in this nice air and under these trees which hide us in so well."

Philip Taverney appeared, followed by Andrea, giving her arm to her father, wearing a fine royal blue velvet coat, last vestige of former splendor. Andrea wore a ruddy gray silk dress and had her hair in long plaits. Following Balsamo's hint, the baron had donned the insignia of the Knightly Order.

"Your highness," said Philip, pale with emotion and noble in his sorrow, "allow me the honor to present Baron de Taverney, Red Castle, my sire, and Mademoiselle Claire Andrea, my sister."