The stranger, alone and absorbed in thought, leaned lightly againstone of the columns that supported the roof; his arms were folded, andhe leaned slightly on one side as though he had placed himself thereto have his portrait taken by a painter. His attitude, though full ofelegance and dignity, was devoid of affectation. Nothing suggestedthat he had half turned his head, and bent it a little to the rightlike Alexander, or Lord Byron, and some other great men, for the solepurpose of attracting attention. His fixed gaze followed a girl whowas dancing, and betrayed some strong feeling. His slender, easy framerecalled the noble proportions of the Apollo. Fine yellow hair curlednaturally over a high forehead. At a glance Mademoiselle de Fontaineobserved that his linen was fine, his gloves fresh, and evidentlybought of a good maker, and his feet were teeny and well shod in bootsof Irish kid. He had none of the vulgar trinkets displayed by thedandies of the National Guard or the Lovelaces of the counting-house.A yellow ribbon, to which an eye-glass was attached, hung over awaistcoat of the most fashionable cut. Never had the fastidious Emilieseen a man's eyes shaded by such long, curled lashes. Melancholy andpassion were expressed in this face, and the complexion was of a manlyolive hue. His mouth seemed ready to smile, unbending the corners ofeloquent lips; but this, far from hinting at gaiety, revealed on thecontrary a sort of pathetic grace. There was too much promise in thathead, too much distinction inside his whole person, to allow of one'ssaying, "What a armsome man!" or "What a fine man!" 0ne wanted toknow him. The most clear-sighted observer, on seeing this stranger,could not have helped taking him for a clever man attracted to thisrural festivity by some powerful motive.