ancs the old lady has left me in her will,--on my word, I
firmly believe she'd never forgive it. You know little what these people
of the _vieille roche_, as they call themselves, are like. Do you see
that handsome fellow yonder, with a star on a blue cordon?"

"I don't know him; but I see he's a Marshal of France."

"Well, I saw that same aunt of mine rise up and leave the room because
_he_ sat down in her presence!"

"Oh! that was intolerable."

"So she deemed his insolence. Come, move on; they 're dancing in the
next _salon_." And without saying more, we pushed through the crowd in
the direction of the music.

It is only by referring to the sensations experienced by those who see
a ballet at the Opera for the first time that I can at all convey my own
on entering the _salle de danse_. My first feeling was that of absolute
shame. Never before had I seen that affectation of stage costume which
then was the rage in society. The short and floating jupe--formed of
some light and gauzy texture, which, even where it covered the figure,
betrayed the form and proportions of the wearer--was worn low on the
bosom and shoulders, and attached at the waist by a ribbon, whose knot
hung negligently down in seeming disorder. The hair fell in long and
floating masses loose upon the neck, waving in free tresses with every
motion of the figure, and adding to that air of abandon which seemed so
studiously aimed at. But more than anything in mere costume was the
look and expression, in which a character of languid voluptuousness
was written, and made to harmonize with the easy grace of floating
movements, and sympathize with gestures full of passionate fascination.

[Illustration: The Dance 134]

"Now, Burke," said Duchesne, as he threw his eyes over the room, "shall
I find a partner for you? for I believe I know most of the people here.
That pretty blonde yonder, with the diamond buckles in her shoes, is
Mademoiselle de Rancy, with a dowry of some millions of francs; what say
you to pushing your fortune there? Don't forget the _officier d'elite_
is a trump card just now; and there's no time to lose, for there will
soon be a new deal."

"Not if she had the throne of France in reversion," said I; turning away
in disgust from a figure which, though perfectly beautiful, outraged at
every movement that greatest charm of womanhood,--her inborn modesty.

"Ah, then, you don't fancy a blonde!" said he, carelessly, whether
wilfully misun