Zebiline, vol 3 | Page 6

Delorme,
hastened to throw away their cigarettes, and all made their way to the
long gallery. The Baron de Samoreau and the Chevalier de Sainte-Foy
remained alone together.
The Duchess took the occasion to speak quietly to her brother.
"I assure you that you are too hard with her," she said. "There is no
need to excuse yourself for not marrying. No one dreams of such a
thing --she no more than any one else. But she seems to have a
sentiment of friendship toward you, and I am sure that your harshness
wounds her."
A more experienced woman than Madame de Montgeron, who had
known only a peaceful and legitimate love, would have quickly divined
that beneath her brother's brusque manner lurked a budding but
hopeless passion, whence sprang his intermittent revolt against the
object that had inspired it.
This revolt was not only against Zibeline's fortune; it included her all-
pervading charm, which penetrated his soul. He was vexed at his sister
for having brought them together; he was angry with himself that he
had allowed his mind to be turned so quickly from his former
prejudices; and, however indifferent he forced himself to appear, he
was irritated against Lenaieff because of the attentions which that
gentleman showered upon Zibeline, upon whom he revenged himself
by assuming the aggressive attitude for which the Duchess had
reproached him.
In a still worse humor after the sisterly remonstrance to which he had
just been compelled to listen, he seated himself near the entrance of the
gallery, where the gypsy band was playing one of their alluring waltzes,
of a cadence so different from the regular and monotonous measure of
French dance music.
The three couples who were to compose this impromptu ball, yielded
quickly to the spell of this irresistible accompaniment.

"Suppose Monsieur Desvanneaux should hear that we danced on the
eve of Palm Sunday?" laughingly pro-tested Madame de Lisieux.
"He would report it at Rome," said Madame de Nointel.
And, without further regard to the compromising of their souls, each of
the two young women took for a partner the husband of the other.
Mademoiselle de Vermont had granted the eager request of Lenaieff
that she would waltz with him, an occupation in which the Russian
officer acquitted himself with the same respectful correctness that had
formerly obtained for him the high favor of some grand duchess at the
balls in the palace of Gatchina.
He was older and stouter than his brother-in-arms, Henri de Prerolles,
and a wound he had received at Plevna slightly impeded his
movements, so that he was unable to display the same activity in the
dance as the other waltzers, and contented himself with moving a 'trois
temps', in an evolution less in harmony with the brilliancy of the music.
Henri, on the contrary, who had been a familiar friend of the Austrian
ambassador at the time when the Princess de Metternich maintained a
sort of open ballroom for her intimates, had learned, in a good school,
all the boldness and elegance of the Viennese style of dancing.
But he sat immovable, as did also Edmond Delorme, because of the
lack of partners; and, not wishing to take the second place after
Lenaieff, his rival, he would not for the world abandon his role of
spectator, unless some one forced him to it.
"Suppose we have a cotillon figure, in order to change partners?" said
Valentine suddenly, during a pause, after she had thanked her partner.
And, to set the example, she took, from a basket of flowers, a rosebud,
which she offered to Henri.
"Will you take a turn with me?" she said, with the air of the mistress of
the house, who shows equal courtesy to all her guests.

"A deux temps?" he asked, fastening the rosebud in his buttonhole.
"Yes, I prefer that," she replied.
He passed his arm around her waist, and they swept out upon the
polished floor, he erect and gallant, she light and supple as a gazelle,
her chin almost resting upon her left hand, which lay upon her partner's
shoulder, her other hand clasped in his.
At times her long train swirled in a misty spiral around her, when they
whirled about in some corner; then it spread out behind her like a great
fan when they swept in a wide curve from one end of the gallery to the
other.
During the feverish flight which drew these two together, their breasts
touched, the bosom of the enchantress leaned against the broad chest of
the vigorous soldier, her soft hair caressed his cheek, he inhaled a
subtle Perfume, and a sudden intoxication overflowed his heart, which
he had tried to make as stern and immobile as his face.
"How well you waltz!" murmured Zibeline, in his ear.
"I