Part 4 (1/2)
”You can be quite easy, grandmamma, I never lose my head.”
II.
IN the evening as they were driving through Pont-sur-Loire on their way back to Bracieux, M. de Rueille said to Denyse:
”There is no mistake about it, Bijou, my dear with you there is no chance of pa.s.sing by unnoticed. Oh, dear, no!”
She glanced at the foot-pa.s.sengers, who were turning round to look at her with intense curiosity, and answered:
”It's my pink dress that--”
”No, it is not your dress, it is you yourself.”
Her large violet eyes grew larger with astonishment as she asked:
”I, myself? But why?”
”Oh, Bijou, my dear, it is not at all nice of you to act like that with your poor old cousin.”
”You think I am acting?” she exclaimed, looking more and more astounded.
”Well, it appears like it to me; it is impossible for you not to know how pretty you are. In the first place, you have eyes, and then you are told often enough for--”
”I am told?--by whom?”
”By everyone. Why, even I, although I am nearly your uncle and a settled-down respectable sort of man.”
”'Nearly my uncle.' No--considering that Bertrade is my first cousin; and, as to the rest--” She stopped abruptly, and then finished with a laugh. ”You flatter yourself!”
”Alas, no! I shall soon be forty-two.”
She looked at him in surprise.
”Oh, well! you don't look it.”
”Thank you! There now! Do you see how all the natives are gazing at you? I can a.s.sure you, Bijou, that when I come to do any shopping alone, they do not watch me so eagerly.”
”I tell you it is this pink dress that astonishes them.”
”But why should they be astonished? They are accustomed to that, because you often come to Pont-sur-Loire, and you always wear pink.”
Ever since she had left off her mourning for her parents, who had died four years ago, Denyse had adopted pink as her only colour for all her dresses. The reason was, she said, because her grandmother preferred seeing her dressed thus. Anyhow, this pink, a very pale, soft shade, like that of the petals of a rose just as it begins to fall, suited her to perfection, as it was almost exactly the same delicate colour as her skin.
She always wore it, and when the weather was cold or gloomy she would put on a long, gathered cloak, which covered her entirely, and on taking this dark wrap off, she would come out, looking as fresh and sweet as a flower, and seem to brighten up everything around her.
Her dresses were always of batiste, muslin, or some soft woollen material, comparatively inexpensive. The greatest luxury to which she treated herself now and again was a _taffetas_ or surah silk. And then, nothing could be more simple than the way these dresses were made--always the same little gathered blouses and straight skirts, and never any tr.i.m.m.i.n.g whatever, except, perhaps, in the winter, a narrow edging of fur.
”Yes, that's quite true,” she said thoughtfully, ”I am always in pink.