The Nabob, Volume 2 | Page 6

famous dancer's figure
stood out all white, a light, airy unsubstantial ghost, flying, rather than
springing, through the air; then, standing upon her slender toes, upheld
in the air by naught but her outstretched arms, her face raised in a
fleeting attitude in which nothing was visible but the smile, she came
quickly forward toward the light, or receded with little jerky steps, so
rapid that one constantly expected to hear the crash of glass and see her
glide backward up the slope of the broad moonbeam that shone aslant
into the studio. There was one fact that imparted a strange, poetic
charm to that fantastic ballet, and that was the absence of music, of
every other sound than that of the measured footfalls, whose effect was
heightened by the semi-darkness, of that quick, light patter no louder
than the fall of the petals from a dahlia, one by one. This lasted for
some minutes, then they could tell from the quickening of her breath
that she was becoming exhausted.

"Enough, enough! Sit down," said Felicia.
Thereupon the little white ghost lighted on the edge of an armchair and
sat there poised and ready to start anew, smiling and panting, until
sleep seized upon her, and began to sway and rock her softly to and fro
without disturbing her pretty attitude, like a dragon-fly on a willow
branch that drags in the water and moves with the current.
As they watched her nodding in the chair, Felicia said:
"Poor little Fairy! that is the best and most serious thing in the way of
friendship, protection and guardianship that I have had during my life.
That butterfly acted as my godmother. Do you wonder now at the
zigzags, the erratic flights of my mind? Lucky for me that I have clung
to her."
She added abruptly, with joyful warmth:
"Ah! Minerva, Minerva, I am very glad that you came to-night. You
mustn't leave me alone so long again, you see. I need to have an upright
mind like yours by my side, to see one true face amid all the masks that
surround me. But you're fearfully bourgeois all the same," she added
laughingly, "and a provincial to boot. But never mind! you are the man
that I most enjoy looking at all the same. And I believe that my liking
for you is due mainly to one thing. You remind me of some one who
was the dearest friend of my youth, a serious, sensible little creature
like yourself, bound fast to the commonplace side of existence, but
mingling with it the element of idealism which we artists put aside for
the benefit of our work alone. Some things that you say seem to me to
come from her lips. You have a mouth built on the same antique model.
Is that what makes your words alike? I don't know about that, but you
certainly do resemble each other. I'll show you."
As she sat opposite him at the table laden with sketches and albums,
she began to draw as she talked, her face bending over the paper, her
unmanageable curls shading her shapely little head. She was no longer
the beautiful crouching monster, with the frowning anxious face,
lamenting her own destiny; but a woman, a true woman, who loves and

seeks to charm. Paul forgot all his suspicions then, in presence of such
sincerity and grace. He was on the point of speaking, of pleading with
her. It was the decisive moment. But the door opened and the little
servant appeared. Monsieur le Duc had sent to ask if Mademoiselle
were still suffering from her sick headache.
"Just as much as ever," she said testily.
When the servant had gone, there was a moment's silence between
them, a freezing pause. Paul had risen. She went on with her sketch, her
head still bent.
He walked away a few steps, then returned to the table and asked
gently, astonished to find that he was so calm:
"Was it the Duc de Mora who was to dine here?"
"Yes--I was bored--a day of spleen. Such days are very bad for me."
"Was the duchess to come?"
"The duchess? No. I don't know her."
"Well, if I were in your place, I would never receive in my house, at my
table, a married man whose wife I did not meet in society. You
complain of being abandoned; why do you abandon yourself? When
one is without reproach, one must keep oneself above suspicion. Do I
offend you?"
"No, no, scold me, Minerva. I like your morality. It is frank and
straightforward; it doesn't squint like Jenkins'. As I told you, I need
some one to guide me."
She held before him the sketch she had just finished.
"See! there's the friend of whom