You will say that I have painted for you a person who could not, by any
possibility, be beautiful; and yet French Eva was beautiful. You got
used to that dull curtain of her hair; it made Madame Mauer's lustrous
raven locks look oily. It came to seem, after a time, all that hair
should be. Her features were nearly perfect from our finicking European
point of view, and she grew in grace even while I, a newcomer, watched;
for the effect of the tropic sun upon her skin was curious and lovely:
it neither blotched nor reddened nor tanned her, but rather gilded her
pallor, touching it with the faintest brown in the world. I must, in the
interests of truth, mention one more fact. Mam'selle Eva was the sort of
woman who has a direct effect on the opposite sex. Charm hardly
expresses it; magnetism, rather, though that is a poor word. A man
simply wanted to be near her. She intrigued you, she drew you on, she
assailed your consciousness in indefinable ways--all without the sweep
of an eyelash or the pout of a lip. French Eva was a good girl, and went
her devious ways with reticent feet. But she was not in "society," for
she lived alone in a thatched hut, and attended native festivals, and
swore--when necessary--at the crews of trading barques. I am not sure
that she did not, of all tongues possible to her, prefer beche-de-mer;
which is not, at its most innocent, an elegant language.
Pages:
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238