On Madame Pierson's table were some papers and new books; they looked as
though they had not been more than touched. In spite of the simplicity of
everything around her, of furniture and dress, it was easy to recognize
mode, that is to say, life; she did not live for this alone, but that
goes without saying. What struck me in her taste was, that there was
nothing bizarre, everything breathed of youth and pleasantness. Her
conversation indicated a finished education; there was no subject on
which she could not speak well and with ease. While admitting that she
was naive, it was evident that she was at the same time profound in
thought and fertile in resource; an intelligence, at once broad and free,
soared gently over a simple heart and over the habits of a retired life.
The sea-swallow, whirling through the azure heavens, soars thus over the
blade of grass that marks its nest.
We talked of literature, music, and even politics. She had visited Paris
during the winter; from time to time, she dipped into the world; what she
saw there served as a basis for what she divined.
But her distinguishing trait was gaiety, a cheerfulness that, while not
exactly joy itself, was constant and unalterable; it might be said that
she was born a flower, and that her perfume was gaiety.
Her pallor, her large dark eyes, her manner at certain moments, all led
me to believe that she had suffered.
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