Oh, if my wretched life be
worth gratitude, thank God! thank God!"
She repeated the words with a burst of hysterical weeping. She knelt by
the little white bed and buried her face in her hands. Deep, bitter sobs
shook her whole frame; from her white lips came a low moan that
betokened anguish too great for words. Then, when the passion of grief
had subsided and she was exhausted, she rose and stood erect. Then one
saw how superbly beautiful she was, although her face was stained with
tears.
She was still young, not more than three-and-twenty; her figure was of
rarest symmetry; when the great world knew her it had been accustomed to
say that her figure resembled that of the celebrated Diana for the
Louvre; there was the marvelous, free-spirited grace and matchless
perfection.
She had the face and head of a young queen, a face of peerless beauty; a
white, broad brow that might have worn a crown; eyes of the dark hue of
the violets, with long fringes that rested on a cheek perfect in shape
and color; brows straight, like those of a Greek goddess; lips sweet and
proud--they were white now, and quivering, but the beauty of the mouth
was unchanged.
So she stood in all the splendor of her grand loveliness. There is over
her whole figure and face that indescribable something which tells that
she is wife and mother both, that look of completed life.
The hands, so tightly clasped, are white and slender. There is no
attribute of womanly loveliness that does not belong to her.
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