She flew away on the arm of Rochemaure, who had just come to fetch her for the cotillion. He too was very much taken; just in order to imitate Lappara, the good young fellow ventured to pronounce a word which caused her to break out in a gale of gayety that went whirling with her round the entire room, and when the shawl figure was finished she went over toward her sister and whispered in her ear:
“Here we are in a nice mess! Here is Numa, who has promised me to each of his three secretaries!”
“Which one are you going to take?”
Her answer was cut short by the rolling of the tabor.
“The farandole! The farandole!”
It was a surprise for his guests from the Minister—the farandole to close the cotillion—the South to the last go! and so—zou! But how do people dance it? Hands meet each other and join and the two dancing-rooms come together this time. Bompard gravely explains: “This is the way, young ladies,” and he cuts a caper.
And then, with Hortense at its head, the farandole unrolls itself across the long rows of rooms, followed by Valmajour playing with a superb solemnity, proud of his success and of the looks which his masculine and robust figure in that original costume earn for him.
“Isn’t he beautiful!” cried Roumestan, “isn’t he handsome! a regular Greek shepherd!”
From room to room the rustic dance, more and more crowded and lively, follows and chases the spectre of Frayssinous. Reawakened to life by these airs from the ancient time, the figures on the great tapestries, copied from the pictures of Boucher and Lancret, agitate themselves and the little naked backs of the cupids who are rolling about along the frieze take on a movement in the eyes of the dancers as of a rushing hunt as wild and crazy as their own.
Away down there at the end of the vista Cadaillac has edged up to the buffet with a plate and a glass of wine in his hand; he listens, eats and drinks, penetrated to the very centre of his scepticism by that sudden heat of joy: