Chebe--who did not sell wallpapers, not
he!--could not afford to dress his daughter as a circus-dancer. But
Risler insisted, declared that he would get everything himself, and at
once set about designing a costume.

It was a memorable evening.

In Madame Chebe's bedroom, littered with pieces of cloth and pins and
small toilet articles, Desiree Delobelle superintended Sidonie's toilet.
The child, appearing taller because of her short skirt of red flannel
with black stripes, stood before the mirror, erect and motionless, in
the glittering splendor of her costume. She was charming. The waist,
with bands of velvet laced over the white stomacher, the lovely, long
tresses of chestnut hair escaping from a hat of plaited straw, all
the trivial details of her Savoyard's costume were heightened by the
intelligent features of the child, who was quite at her ease in the
brilliant colors of that theatrical garb.

The whole assembled neighborhood uttered cries of admiration. While some
one went in search of Delobelle, the lame girl arranged the folds of
the skirt, the bows on the shoes, and cast a final glance over her work,
without laying aside her needle; she, too, was excited, poor child! by
the intoxication of that festivity to which she was not invited.
The great man arrived. He made Sidonie rehearse two or three stately
curtseys which he had taught her, the proper way to walk, to stand, to
smile with her mouth slightly open, and the exact position of the little
finger. It was truly amusing to see the precision with which the child
went through the drill.

"She has dramatic blood in her veins!" exclaimed the old actor
enthusiastically, unable to understand why that stupid Frantz was
strongly inclined to weep.

A year after that happy evening Sidonie could have told you what flowers
there were in the reception rooms, the color of the furniture, and
the music they were playing as she entered the ballroom, so deep an
impression did her enjoyment make upon her. She forgot nothing, neither
the costumes that made an eddying whirl about her, nor the childish
laughter, nor all the tiny steps that glided over the polished floors.
For a moment, as she sat on the edge of a great red-silk couch, taking
from the plate presented to her the first sherbet of her life, she
suddenly thought of the dark stairway, of her parents' stuffy little
rooms, and it produced upon her mind the effect of a distant country
which she had left forever.