These unfortunate creatures whenever they go out are always accompanied
by somebody or other. As no man cares to make himself conspicuous by
being seen in their company, and as they are afraid of solitude, they
take with them either those who are not well enough off to have a
carriage, or one or another of those elegant, ancient ladies, whose
elegance is a little inexplicable, and to whom one can always go for
information in regard to the women whom they accompany.

In Marguerite's case it was quite different. She was always alone when
she drove in the Champs-Elysees, lying back in her carriage as much as
possible, dressed in furs in winter, and in summer wearing very simple
dresses; and though she often passed people whom she knew, her smile,
when she chose to smile, was seen only by them, and a duchess might
have smiled in just such a manner. She did not drive to and fro like the
others, from the Rond-Point to the end of the Champs-Elysees. She drove
straight to the Bois. There she left her carriage, walked for an hour,
returned to her carriage, and drove rapidly home.

All these circumstances which I had so often witnessed came back to my
memory, and I regretted her death as one might regret the destruction of
a beautiful work of art.

It was impossible to see more charm in beauty than in that of
Marguerite. Excessively tall and thin, she had in the fullest degree the
art of repairing this oversight of Nature by the mere arrangement of the
things she wore. Her cashmere reached to the ground, and showed on each
side the large flounces of a silk dress, and the heavy muff which she
held pressed against her bosom was surrounded by such cunningly arranged
folds that the eye, however exacting, could find no fault with the
contour of the lines. Her head, a marvel, was the object of the most
coquettish care. It was small, and her mother, as Musset would say,
seemed to have made it so in order to make it with care.