LITMIR.BIZ

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extraordinary cotillon-leader you ever saw; he gave himself over to fantastic and mischievous devices; at one dance where they had been so imprudent as to select him, it was said that he had compelled the ladies to jump over the chairs, and one of his favourite figures was to make everybody go round the room on all-fours.

      “Has M. de Saffré gone?” asked a childish voice.

      He was just going, he was saying goodbye to the beautiful Madame Saccard, with whom he was on the best of terms since she had refused to have anything to do with him. The amiable sceptic admired the caprices of others. He was brought back in triumph from the hall. He resisted, he said with a smile that they were compromising him, that he was a serious man. Then, in presence of all the white hands stretched out to him:

      “Come,” said he, “take your positions…. But I warn you, I belong to the old school. I haven’t two farthings’ worth of imagination.”

      The couples sat down around the room, on all the seats that could be gathered together; young men were even sent to fetch the iron chairs from the hothouse. It was a monster cotillon. M. de Saffré, who wore the rapt expression of a celebrant, chose for his partner the Comtesse Vanska, whose Coral dress fascinated him. When everybody was in position, he cast a long look at this circular row of skirts, each flanked by a dress-coat. And he nodded to the orchestra, whose brass resounded. Heads leaned forward along the smiling line of faces.

      Renée refused to take part in the cotillon. She had been nervously gay since the commencement of the ball, scarcely dancing, mingling with the groups, unable to remain still. Her friends thought her odd. She had talked, during the evening, of making a balloon journey with a celebrated aeronaut in whom all Paris was interested. When the cotillon began, she was annoyed at no longer being able to walk about at her ease, she stationed herself at the door leading to the hall, shaking hands with the men who were leaving, talking with her husband’s familiars. The Baron Gouraud, whom a lackey was carrying off in his fur cloak, found a last word of praise for Renée’s Otaheitan dress.

      Meanwhile, M. Toutin-Laroche shook Saccard’s hand.

      “Maxime reckons on you,” said the latter.

      “Quite so,” replied the new senator.

      And turning to Renée:

      “Madame, I have forgotten to congratulate you…. So the dear boy is settled now!”

      And as she gave a surprised smile:

      “My wife doesn’t know yet,” said Saccard…. “We have this evening decided on the marriage between Mademoiselle de Mareuil and Maxime.”

      She continued smiling, bowing to M. Toutin-Laroche, who went off saying:

      “You sign the contract on Sunday, don’t you? I am going to Nevers on some mining business, but I shall be back in time.”

      Renée remained alone for a moment in the middle of the hall. She smiled no longer; and as she more deeply realized what she had just been told, she was seized with a great shiver. She looked with a fixed stare at the red velvet hangings, the rare plants, the majolica vases. Then she said out aloud:

      “I must speak to him.”

      And she returned to the drawingroom. But she had to stay in the doorway. A figure of the cotillon barred the way. The band played a soft waltz-movement. The ladies, holding each other’s hands, formed a ring like one of those rings of little girls singing, “Giro flé giro fla” and they danced round as quickly as possible, pulling at each other’s arms, laughing, gliding. In the centre a gentleman — it was that mischievous Mr. Simpson — held a long pink scarf in his hand; he raised it, with the gesture of a fisherman about to cast his net; but he did not hurry, he seemed to think it amusing to let those ladies dance round and tire themselves. They panted and begged for mercy. Then he threw the scarf, and he threw it with such skill that it went and wound round the shoulders of Madame d’Espanet and Madame Haffner, who were dancing round side by side. It was one of the Yankee’s jests. Next he wanted to waltz with both ladies at once, and he had already taken the two of them by the waist, one with his left arm, the other with his right, when M. de Saffré said, in his severe voice as cotillon-king:

      “You can’t dance with two ladies.”

      But Mr. Simpson refused to leave go of the two waists. Adeline and Suzanne threw themselves back in his arms, laughing. The point was argued, the ladies grew angry, the uproar was prolonged, and the dress-coats in the recesses of the windows asked themselves how Saffré proposed to extricate himself creditably from this dilemma. For a moment, in fact, he seemed perplexed, seeking by what refinement of grace he could win the laughers to his side. Then he gave a smile, he took Madame d’Espanet and Madame Haffner, each by one hand, whispered a question in their ears, received their reply, and next addressing himself to Mr. Simpson:

      “Do you pick verbena or periwinkle?”

      Mr. Simpson, looking rather foolish, said that he picked verbena. Whereupon M. de Saffré handed him the marquise, saying:

      “Here’s your verbena.”

      There was discreet applause. They thought this very neat. M. de Saffré was a cotillon-leader “who was never at a loss,” so the ladies said. In the meanwhile the band had with its full strength resumed the waltz air, and Mr. Simpson, after waltzing round the room with Madame d’Espanet, led her back to her seat.

      Renée was able to pass. She had bitten her lips till the blood came, at the sight of all “this nonsense.” She thought these men and women stupid to throw scarves about and call themselves by the names of plants. Her ears rang, a furious impatience gave her an abrupt desire to throw herself headlong forward and effect a passage. She crossed the drawingroom with a rapid step, jostling the belated couples returning to their seats. She went straight to the conservatory. She had seen neither Louise nor Maxime among the dancers, she said to herself that they must be there, in some nook of foliage, brought together by that instinct for fun and improprieties that made them seek out little corners as soon as they found themselves anywhere together. But she explored the dimness of the conservatory in vain. She only perceived, in the back of an arbour, a tall young man devoutly kissing little Madame Daste’s hands, murmuring:

      “Madame de Lauwerens was right: you’re an angel!”

      This declaration made in her house, in her conservatory, shocked her. Really Madame de Lauwerens ought to have taken her trade elsewhere! And Renée would have felt relieved could she have turned out of her rooms all these people who shouted so loudly. Standing before the tank, she looked at the water, she asked herself where Louise and Maxime could have hidden themselves. The orchestra still played the same waltz, whose slow undulation made her feel sick. It was unendurable, not to be able to reflect in one’s own house. She became confused. She forgot that the young people were not married yet, and she said to herself it was perfectly clear they had gone to bed. Then she thought of the dining-room, she quickly ran up the conservatory steps. But, at the door of the ballroom, she was for the second time stopped by a figure of the cotillon.

      “This is the ‘Dark Spots,’ mesdames,” said M. de Saffré, gallantly. “It is my own invention, and you shall be the first to have the benefit of it.”

      There was much laughter. The men explained the allusion to the ladies. The Emperor had just made a speech in which he had referred to the presence of “certain dark spots” on the horizon. These dark spots, for no appreciable reason, had had a great success. The Parisian wits had appropriated the expression so much so that for the past week the dark spots had been applied to everything. M. de Saffré placed the gentlemen at one end of the room, making them turn their backs on the ladies, who were left at the other end. Then he ordered them to pull up their coats so as to hide the backs of their heads. This performance was gone through amid the maddest merriment. Hunchbacked, their shoulders screwed up, their coat tails falling no lower than their waists, the cavaliers looked really hideous.

      “Don’t laugh, mesdames,” cried M. de Saffré with most humorous seriousness, “or I shall make you put your skirts over your heads.”

      The gaiety redoubled. And

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