She is neither
large, nor small; her head is alluring, piquant--in the sense of the
period of the French marquises--rather than formally beautiful. What
enchantment and softness, what roguish charm play about her none too
small mouth! Her skin is so infinitely delicate, that the blue veins
show through everywhere; even through the muslin covering her arms
and bosom. How abundant her red hair-it is red, not blonde or golden-
yellow--how diabolically and yet tenderly it plays around her neck!
Now her eyes meet mine like green lightnings--they are green, these
eyes of hers, whose power is so indescribable--green, but as are
precious stones, or deep unfathomable mountain lakes.
She observes my confusion, which has even made me discourteous, for
I have remained seated and still have my cap on my head.
She smiles roguishly.
Finally I rise and bow to her. She comes closer, and bursts out into
a loud, almost childlike laughter. I stammer, as only a little
dilettante or great big donkey can do on such an occasion.
Thus our acquaintance began.
The divinity asks for my name, and mentions her own.
Her name is Wanda von Dunajew.
And she is actually my Venus.
"But madame, what put the idea into your head?"
"The little picture in one of your books--"
"I had forgotten about it."
"The curious notes on its back--"
"Why curious?"
She looked at me.
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