of the Levasseur girls coming into
view; the Red Riding-Hoods seemed to increase in number; caps and
gowns of gleaming red satin slashed with black velvet everywhere
leaped into sight. Meanwhile some of the older boys and girls had
found refuge in the adjacent saloon, where they could dance more at
their ease. Valentine de Chermette, cloaked in the mantilla of a
Spanish senorita, was executing some marvellous steps in front of a
young gentleman who had donned evening dress. Suddenly there was a
burst of laughter which drew every one to the sight; behind a door in
a corner, baby Guiraud, the two-year-old clown, and a mite of a girl
of his own age, in peasant costume, were holding one another in a
tight embrace for fear of tumbling, and gyrating round and round like
a pair of slyboots, with cheek pressed to cheek.

"I'm quite done up," remarked Helene, as she leaned against the
dining-room door.

She fanned her face, flushed with her exertions in the dance. Her
bosom rose and fell beneath the transparent grenadine of her bodice.
And she was still conscious of Henri's breath beating on her
shoulders; he was still close to her--ever behind her. Now it flashed
on her that he would speak, yet she had no strength to flee from his
avowal. He came nearer and whispered, breathing on her hair: "I love
you! oh, how I love you!"

She tingled from head to foot, as though a gust of flame had beaten on
her. O God! he had spoken; she could no longer feign the pleasurable
quietude of ignorance. She hid behind her fan, her face purple with
blushes. The children, whirling madly in the last of the quadrilles,
were making the floor ring with the beating of their feet. There were
silvery peals of laughter, and bird-like voices gave vent to
exclamations of pleasure. A freshness arose from all that band of
innocents galloping round and round like little demons.

"I love you! oh, how I love you!"

She shuddered again; she would listen no further. With dizzy brain she
fled into the dining-room, but it was deserted, save that Monsieur
Letellier sat on a chair, peacefully sleeping. Henri had followed her,
and had the hardihood to seize her wrists even at the risk of a
scandal, his face convulsed with such passion that she trembled before
him. And he still repeated the words:

"I love you! I love you!"

"Leave me," she murmured faintly. "You are mad--"

And, close by, the dancing still went on, with the trampling of tiny
feet. Blanche Be