A Romance of the Republic | Page 3

Tulipa? we will come," said Floracita.
"Is she a flower too?" asked Alfred.
"Yes, she's a flower, too," answered Floracita, with a merry little laugh.
"We named her so because she always wears a red and yellow turban;
but we call her Tulee, for short."
While they were partaking of refreshments, she and her father were
perpetually exchanging badinage, which, childish as it was, served to
enliven the repast. But when she began to throw oranges for him to
catch, a reproving glance from her dignified sister reminded her of the
presence of company.
"Let her do as she likes, Rosa dear," said her father. "She is used to
being my little plaything, and I can't spare her to be a woman yet."
"I consider it a compliment to forget that I am a stranger," said Mr.
King. "For my own part, I forgot it entirely before I had been in the
house ten minutes."
Rosabella thanked him with a quiet smile and a slight inclination of her
head. Floracita, notwithstanding this encouragement, paused in her
merriment; and Mr. Royal began to talk over reminiscences connected
with Alfred's father. When they rose from table, he said, "Come here,
Mignonne! We won't be afraid of the Boston gentleman, will we?"
Floracita sprang to his side. He passed his arm fondly round her, and,
waiting for his guest and his elder daughter to precede them, they
returned to the room they had left. They had scarcely entered it, when
Floracita darted to the window, and, peering forth into the twilight, she
looked back roguishly at her sister, and began to sing:--
"Un petit blanc, que j'aime, En ces lieux est venu. Oui! oui! c'est lui

même! C'est lui! je l'ai vue! Petit blanc! mon bon frère! Ha! ha! petit
blanc si doux!"
The progress of her song was checked by the entrance of a gentleman,
who was introduced to Alfred as Mr. Fitzgerald from Savannah. His
handsome person reminded one of an Italian tenor singer, and his
manner was a graceful mixture of hauteur and insinuating courtesy.
After a brief interchange of salutations, he said to Floracita, "I heard
some notes of a lively little French tune, that went so trippingly I
should be delighted to hear more of it."
Floracita had accidentally overheard some half-whispered words which
Mr. Fitzgerald had addressed to her sister, during his last visit, and,
thinking she had discovered an important secret, she was disposed to
use her power mischievously. Without waiting for a repetition of his
request, she sang:--
"Petit blanc, mon bon frère! Ha! ha! petit blanc si doux! Il n'y a rien sur
la terre De si joli que vous."
While she was singing, she darted roguish glances at her sister, whose
cheeks glowed like the sun-ripened side of a golden apricot. Her father
touched her shoulder, and said in a tone of annoyance, "Don't sing that
foolish song, Mignonne!" She turned to him quickly with a look of
surprise; for she was accustomed only to endearments from him. In
answer to her look, he added, in a gentler tone, "You know I told you I
wanted my friend to see you dance. Select one of your prettiest, ma
petite, and Rosabella will play it for you."
Mr. Fitzgerald assiduously placed the music-stool, and bent over the
portfolio while Miss Royal searched for the music. A servant lighted
the candelabra and drew the curtains. Alfred, glancing at Mr. Royal,
saw he was watching the pair who were busy at the portfolio, and that
the expression of his countenance was troubled. His eyes, however,
soon had pleasanter occupation; for as soon as Rosa touched the piano,
Floracita began to float round the room in a succession of graceful
whirls, as if the music had taken her up and was waltzing her along. As
she passed the marble Dancing Girl, she seized the wreath that was

thrown over its arm, and as she went circling round, it seemed as if the
tune had become a visible spirit, and that the garland was a floating
accompaniment to its graceful motions. Sometimes it was held aloft by
the right hand, sometimes by the left; sometimes it was a whirling
semicircle behind her; and sometimes it rested on her shoulders,
mingling its white orange buds and blossoms with her shower of black
curls and crimson fuchsias. Now it was twined round her head in a
flowery crown, and then it gracefully unwound itself, as if it were a
thing alive. Ever and anon the little dancer poised herself for an instant
on the point of one fairy foot, her cheeks glowing with exercise and
dimpling with smiles, as she met her father's delighted gaze. Every
attitude seemed spontaneous in its prettiness, as if the music had made
it without her choice.