They had finished their dance, but M. Laflamme still kept Renée’s hand and held her attention by some amusing incidents until the music began again. Then she was fain to release it. No one had asked her for this dance—there had been no opportunity.
“I have you, little prisoner.” he said, with a meaning smile. “Come, this is too delightful to forego.”
“No, I would rather not dance,” hesitatingly.
“You cannot plead fatigue, since you have only danced once,” he declared insistently.
He impelled her into the line with a gentle firmness she could not resist, though every line of her face, every pulse in her body, protested against it. Two dances in succession were too pronounced, unless one was betrothed or likely to be.
In spite of it all she found herself whirling about the line, in a keeper’s charge she felt. The young men looked rather questioningly; the girls exchanged glances, the elder women nodded, as if this set the seal to their surmises. Renée’s face was scarlet and her eyes downcast. Would it never come to an end? She was growing more and more resentful, indignant.
“Now we will take a turn about——”
“Where is Elise?” she interrupted. Elise Renaud had been married long enough to play chaperone. Madame Marchand had expected to attend, but in the afternoon one of the babies had been taken ill. And there were mothers enough to watch over the young girls.
“No, you do not want Elise,” mimicking her tone in a soft, yet decisive manner. “And I want you. I have something to say——”
“No! no!” she cried in alarm, wrenching her hand away, and she would have fled, but she almost ran into André Valbonais’s arms.