"Ca vaudra mieux," said the doctor, turning from me to her.
He showed wisdom in his choice. Mine would have been feigned stoicism,
forced fortitude. Hers was neither forced nor feigned.
"Merci, Madame; tres bien, fort bien!" said the operator when he had
finished. "Voila un sang-froid bien opportun, et qui vaut mille elans
de sensibilite deplacee."
He was pleased with her firmness, she with his compliment. It was
likely, too, that his whole general appearance, his voice, mien, and
manner, wrought impressions in his favour. Indeed, when you looked
well at him, and when a lamp was brought in--for it was evening and
now waxing dusk--you saw that, unless Madame Beck had been less than
woman, it could not well be otherwise. This young doctor (he
_was_ young) had no common aspect. His stature looked imposingly
tall in that little chamber, and amidst that group of Dutch-made
women; his profile was clear, fine and expressive: perhaps his eye
glanced from face to face rather too vividly, too quickly, and too
often; but it had a most pleasant character, and so had his mouth; his
chin was full, cleft, Grecian, and perfect. As to his smile, one could
not in a hurry make up one's mind as to the descriptive epithet it
merited; there was something in it that pleased, but something too
that brought surging up into the mind all one's foibles and weak
points: all that could lay one open to a laugh. Yet Fifine liked this
doubtful smile, and thought the owner genial: much as he had hurt her,
she held out her hand to bid him a friendly good-night. He patted the
little hand kindly, and then he and Madame went down-stairs together;
she talking in her highest tide of spirits and volubility, he
listening with an air of good-natured amenity, dashed with that
unconscious roguish archness I find it difficult to describe.
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