It is her, The Devorah of Reims, hailed now as a woman of act among the people of Paris. With a smile as wide as her features spread, she is moving, at this moment, with the subtlest of grace that could be imagined of a woman. In Paris, nearest to a war that fills herself with the grains of ignorance flooded to her by the passage of time, that are, as well, as grains.
A girl of seventeen; and a girl whose amiability is as arousing as it is tempestuous, though to recall her age might seem controversial. Who is it to imagine such a description as at all, controversial? Devorah is a flower, or a dove; and not a man upon this time in our story would not endeavor in the chance to turn his head. She is red upon cheeks, and pink upon lips; she is the deepest shade of oak in her tresses, and the same in her eyes. Oh, denizens and citizens of a city that dresses itself in history! Who among the populace could not attempt a look at her face, at Devorah’s face?
Her sweetness is abounding, and her desires are surfacing! At what moment would the man not reach into her bosom to dig out a heart covered in molten ruby?
Her developing form will continue to develop. Her face will continue to become handsomer. Her tone of skin will be whiter in the next half decade. A loveliness to her breath, while lips are pressed to petals that drip the morning dew to her tongue.
Yes; age, her age, being seventeen, should be controversial. Though, to the man and his mind, that could not conquer his heart; so, his heart and himself that follows along to what is seen, there is seen The Devorah of Reims, the beauty of morrows and days. She is the beauty of a dozen years ago, and a dozen years in return for the friendly future.
Just a year, and only a year, in the future, will such words that have been written be needless. In that time, we need not defend. In that time, we need not find an excuse to keep her serving. To serve the contemptable and contemplative hearts that stem into watchful eyes. To serve the eager minds of a study that is brazened by untold words and ingenious metaphors; for to serve the academic would be to serve Bertrand, and to serve the man of metaphors would be to serve Antoine.