The Empress Marie Louise was only nineteen years old at the period of her marriage. Her hair was blond, her eyes blue and expressive, her carriage noble, and her figure striking, while her hand and foot might have served as models; in fact, her whole person breathed youth, health, and freshness.
Hey, Siurd, what I told you already gesternabend? The British schwein are in Italy already. Hola! Siurd! Take his feet and we turn him over mal!" But Von Glahn remained motionless, leaning heavily against the crag, his back to the abyss, his blond head buried in both arms.
The scrub of blond beard on his face gave him rather an outlawish appearance. And the gray hair over his temples had grown quite conspicuous of late, quite conspicuous indeed. Heredity? Perhaps but it was confoundedly remindful of the fact that he was thirty-eight!
Meantime, let us enter one of the most remote portions of this mansion. There we will find a young woman of from twenty to twenty-three years; but her features are so infantile, her figure is so tiny, her freshness so youthful, she would easily pass for sixteen. Robed in a muslin gown with flowing sleeves, she is reclining on a sofa covered with Indian silk, brown in color, embroidered with golden flowers; she leans her white forehead on one hand, half-hidden by a wilderness of loose curls of reddish blond tint, for the young woman's hair is dressed
"Dispatches for Rudolph Hackh?" he inquired, twisting up his blond moustache, and trying to look insolent and peremptory, like an employer of men. "There are none, sir," answered an amiable clerk, not at all impressed. Abashed once more in the polyglot street, still daunted by his first plunge into the foreign and the strange, he retraced his path, threading shyly toward the Quai François Joseph.
Amos came home at seven and he and Lizzie ate supper in silence except for the old lady's story of Kent's visit. "Poor young one," muttered Amos, looking slowly toward the quiet blond head on the faded brown cushion. "I'm glad she's a child and 'll forget it soon." Lizzie gave Amos a curious glance. "You don't know Lydia, Amos," she said. He did not seem to hear her.
"You should have stayed in Chicago, whatever you did. We all miss you so!..." In her glances about the crowded room Milly's eyes had rested upon a little woman seated at a table not far away, a blond, fluffy-haired, much-dressed and much-jewelled creature, who was scrutinizing the long menu with close attention. "Do you know who she is, Nelly?" Milly asked, indicating the little blond person.
But Thatchy did not mind that kind of talk. West of Revigny, he crossed the old trench line, and came into the area which the Blond Beast had crossed and devastated in the first year of the war. Planks lay across the empty trenches and as he rode over first the French and then the enemy ditches, he looked down and could see in the moonlight some of the ghastly trophies of war.
"It is not the papal loan, madam," he returned, "that takes me to Rome; it is a divorce case." "A divorce case?" The blond lady could not disguise her interest at these words, while even the statuesque beauty at the other end of the compartment turned her face fully upon the speaker, and her lips parted slightly, like the petals of an opening rosebud.
She noticed, suddenly, how much older he looked than on that worshiping day still the blue, gay eyes, the wind-ruffled blond hair, the hilarious laugh that displayed the very white teeth; but all the same he looked older by more than one year: his mouth had a firmer line; his whole clean-cut face showed responsibility and eager manhood.