"I vas ze first--ze very first. One leap into ze air I could do--so
high," he said, lifting his hand descriptively; "a leap zat no vone
vould dare--my fortune vas made. Pupils came from all ze countries to
learn from me some leetle 'pas,' but zere vas no time. Zen, vone night
zere came a king to see me--me, ze king of ze dance--ah! I may say zat
now it is all gone! I danced; ze air vas no lighter zan I ... ze people
shouted, zey called, zey encored. Again I danced, high, high, higher,
and zen--crack!"
He brought his two hands together with a sharp click. His face was
convulsed with emotion, and presently he took a handkerchief from his
pocket and wiped the damp from his brow.
"Yes," he continued, "it is feefteen year--but to me it is to-day.
Zere--in my leg was a break"--he pointed to the place a little above his
ankle and below the calf. "You could put a fingere into it--that vone
muscle vas my fortune--it vas gone--split in vone moment."
His sad eyes stared blankly out from the cracked unclean window as
though reviewing a vast panorama of his early years.
"How sad; terrible! Is this a common accident?" I inquired of him.
"Common? Yes, ze coup de fouet; but zis vas vorse. For long I lay in
bed, my brain made mad to know zat all vas overe, zat all vas lost. Zey
offered me half vage to teach, but no--not vere I had been ze first--ze
very first. I left England and my friends, I hoped for evere."
"Was that not foolish?" I asked, viewing the greasy curtains and other
surrounding evidences of poverty.
"Voolish? Ah, ve are all vools vhen ve love. I had loved: she vas almost
mine, but she vas too young, a child dancer of feefteen summers. So
sveet, so beautiful. She learnt from me my art, every jeste, every
perfection. She vould have been my vife, my queen--but after zis, I ran.
Vhen my senses came I knew that I could be no more rich--only a poor
dead dog in her vay. For zis I fled ze country. I came back after
feefteen year, no longer ze great Salvador, but plain M. Dupres--back to
hear of Betty----"
"Betty!" I echoed.
"Yes, the first dancer in London--my leetle Betty--you have zeen her?"
And he lifted a hand to a portrait over his pillow.
I recognised with dismay the child face--the merry smile at the corner
of the lip.
"This is the very woman I am trying to paint."
"Sapristi!" he exclaimed, and again wiped his brow. "You vill keep my
zecret? Ze years of zacrifice, let them not be known to her." His face
was wrinkled and livid with anxiety.
"Your confidence is sacred; I am honoured by it," I said, extending a
hand, for Laura just then opened the door upon us.
She laughed whimsically at my almost emotional leave-taking of a total
stranger, and chaffed me about it when we got outside.
"I have much to be grateful for to him--to you," I said. "My picture is
almost achieved. I may be worthy to follow at the heels of Degas yet."
When Betty next came to the studio she thought my painting was
completed, and skipped about in front of the canvas with the genuine joy
of gratified vanity.
"Why didn't you tell me it was done, and I needn't have got into these,"
she said, lifting the hem of her gauze skirt to her lips--a fascinating
trick which, to use her own expression, invariably "brought down the
house."