"
"No,--I thought so at first; but do you see that Mephistophelean figure,
in black, who follows the Duke a few paces behind, and is introduced to no
one?"
"Yes. A singular creature, truly!--how thin he is!"
"That shadow that follows his Highness is, in fact, the famous valet, Reve
de Noir,--the prince of servants. The Duke goes nowhere without this man
as a shadow. He asserts that Reve de Noir has no soul; and I believe him.
The face is that of a demon. It is a separate creation, equally wonderful
with the master, but not human. He was condensed out of the atmosphere of
the great world."
As we were speaking, we observed a crowd of distinguished persons
gathered about and following his Highness, as he moved. He spoke now to
one; now to another. Honoria, fascinated, her beauty every instant
becoming more radiant, just leaned, with the lightest pressure, upon the
Duke's arm. They were promenading through the rooms. The music, soft and
low, continued, but the groups of dancers broke up, the loiterers in the
gallery came in, and as the sun draws his fifty, perhaps his hundreds of
planets, circling around and near him, this noble luminary centred in
himself the attention of all. If they could not speak with him, they could
at least speak of him. If they could not touch his hand, they could pass
before him and give one glance at his eyes.
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