CHAPTER XLVII
THE DAPPLED GRAYS
HE baron, followed by the count, traversed a long suit of apartments, in which the prevailing characteristics were heavy magnificence and the gaudiness of ostentatious wealth, until he reached the boudoir of Madame Danglars—a small octagonal-shaped room, hung with pink satin, covered with white Indian muslin; the chairs were of ancient workmanship and materials; over the doors were painted sketches of shepherds and shepherdesses, after the style and manner of Boucher; and at each side pretty medallions in crayons, harmonizing well with the fittings-up of this charming apartment, the only one throughout the vast hotel in which any distinctive taste prevailed. The truth was, it had been overlooked in the plan arranged by M. Danglars and his architect, one of the most eminent celebrities of the empire, and its decoration had then been left entirely to the baroness and Lucien Debray.
M. Danglars, however, while possessing a great admiration for the antique, as it was understood during the time of the Directory, entertained the most sovereign contempt for the simple elegance of his wife's favorite sitting-room, where, by the way, he was never permitted to intrude, unless, indeed, he excused his own appearance by ushering in some visitor; and even then he had rather the air of a person who was himself introduced, than as being the presenter of another, his reception being either cordial or frigid, in proportion as the visitor happened to please or displease his lady wife.
As Danglars now entered, he found Madame la Baronne (who, although past the first bloom of youth, was still strikingly handsome) seated at the piano, a most elaborate piece of cabinet and inlaid work, while Lucien Debray, standing before a small work-table, was turning over the pages of an album. Lucien had found time, preparatory to the
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