A DASHING AMAZON
On leaving the table, the fair "Amphitryonne" proposed that the gentlemen
should use her private office as a smoking-room, and the ladies followed
them thither, pretending that the odor of tobacco would not annoy them in
the least, but in reality to inspect this new room.
Edmond Delorme had finished his work that very morning, and the enormous
canvas, with its life-size subject, had already been hung, lighted from
above and below by electric bulbs, the battery for which was cleverly
hidden behind a piece of furniture.
The portrait, bearing a striking resemblance to the original, was indeed
that of "the most dashing of all the Amazons on the Bois," to quote the
words of the artist, who was a better painter of portraits than of
animals, but who, in this case, could not separate the rider from her
steed.
Seaman, a Hungarian bay, by Xenophon and Lena Rivers, was drawn in
profile, very erect on his slender, nervous legs. He appeared, on the
side nearest the observer, to be pawing the ground impatiently with his
hoof, a movement which seemed to be facilitated by his rider, who, drawn
in a three-quarters view and extending her hand, allowed the reins to
fall over the shoulders of her pure-blooded mount.
"What do you think of it?" Zibeline inquired of General de Prerolles.
"I think you have the air of the commander of a division of cavalry,
awaiting the moment to sound the charge."
"I shall guard her well," said Zibeline, "for she would be sure to be put
to rout by your bayonets."
"Not by mine!" gallantly exclaimed Lenaieff. "I should immediately
lower my arms before her!"
"You!--perhaps! But between General de Prerolles and myself the
declaration of war is without quarter. Is it not, General?" said
Valentine, laughing.
"It is the only declaration that fate permits me to make to you,
Mademoiselle," Henri replied, rather dryly, laying emphasis on the double
sense of his words.
This rejoinder, which nothing in the playful attack had justified,
irritated the Duchess, but Valentine appeared to pay no attention to it,
and at ten o'clock, when a gypsy band began to play in the long gallery,
she arose.
"Although we are a very small party," she said, "would you not like to
indulge in a waltz, Mesdames? The gentlemen can not complain of being
crowded here," she added, with a smile.
M. de Lisieux and M. de Nointel, as well as Edmond 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 am taking my revenge for my defeat on the ice," he replied, clasping
her a little closer, in order to facilitate their movements.
"The prisoners you take must find it very difficult to escape from your
hands," she said, with a touch of malice.
"Does that mean that already you wish to reclaim your liberty?"
"Not yet--unless you are fatigued."
"Fatigued! I should like to go thus to the end of the world!"
"And I, too," said Zibeline, simply.
By common consent the other waltzers had stopped, as much for the purpose
of observing these two as for giving them more space, while the wearied
musicians scraped away as if it were a contest who should move the
faster, themselves or the audacious couple.
"What a pity!" again said the Duchess to her husband, whose sole
response was a shrug of his shoulders as he glanced at his brother-in-
law.
At the end of his strength, and with a streaming brow, the gypsy leader
lowered his bow, and the music ceased.
Henri de Prerolles, resuming his sang-froid, drew the hand of
Mademoiselle de Vermont through his arm, and escorted her to her place
among the other ladies.
"Bravo, General!" said Madame de Lisieux. "You have won your
decoration, I see," she added, indicating the rosebud which adorned his
buttonhole.
"What shall we call this new order, ladies?" asked Madame de Nointel of
the circle.
"The order of the Zibeline," Valentine replied, with a frank burst of
laughter.
"What?--do you know--" stammered the author of the nickname, blushing up
to her ears.
"Do not disturb yourself, Madame! The zibeline is a little animal which
is becoming more and more rare. They never have been found at all in my
country, which I regret," said Mademoiselle de Vermont graciously.
The hour was late, and the Duchess arose to depart. The Chevalier de
Sainte-Foy, exercising his function as a sort of chamberlain, went to
summon the domestics. Meanwhile Valentine spoke confidentially to Henri.
"General," said she, "I wish to ask a favor of you."
"I am at your orders, Mademoiselle."
"I am delighted with the success of this little dinner," Valentine
continued, "and I wish to give another after Easter. My great desire is
to have Mademoiselle Gontier--with whom I should like to become better
acquainted--recite poetry to us after dinner. Would you have the
kindness to tell her of my desire?"
"I!" exclaimed the General, amazed at such a request.
"Yes, certainly. If you ask her, she will come all the more willingly."
"You forget that I am not in the diplomatic service, Mademoiselle."
"My request annoys you? Well, we will say no more about it," said
Zibeline. "I will charge Monsieur de Samoreau with the negotiations."
They rejoined the Duchess, Zibeline accompanying her to the vestibule,
always evincing toward her the same pretty air of deference.
The drive home was silent. The Duke and the Duchess had agreed not to
pronounce the name of Mademoiselle de Vermont before Henri, who racked
his brain without being able to guess what strange motive prompted the
young girl to wish to enter into closer relations with the actress.
A letter from Eugenie was awaiting him. He read:
"Two weeks have elapsed since you have been to see me. I do not ask
whether you love me still, but I do ask you, in case you love
another, to tell me so frankly.
"ARIADNE."
"So I am summoned to the confessional, and am expected to accuse myself
of that which I dare not avow even to my own heart! Never!" said Henri,
crushing the note in his hand. "Besides, unless I deceive myself,
Ariadne has not been slow in seeking a consoling divinity! Samoreau is
at hand, it appears. He played the part of Plutus before; now he will
assume that of Bacchus," thought the recreant lover, in order to smother
his feeling of remorse.