"Who and what did you say that poor fair creature is, M. Lemercier?"
"She is a Mademoiselle Julie Caumartin, and was a very popular coryphee. She has hereditary right to be a good dancer, as the daughter of a once more famous ornament of the ballet, la belle Leonie —whom you must have seen in your young days."
"Of course. Leonie—she married a M. Surville, a silly bourgeois
gentilhomme, who earned the hatred of Paris by taking her off the stage.
So that is her daughter I see no likeness to her mother—much handsomer.
Why does she call herself Caumartin?"
"Oh," said Frederic, "a melancholy but trite story."
"Leonie was left a widow, and died in want. What could the poor young daughter do? She found a rich protector, who had influence to get her an appointment in the ballet: and there she did as most girls so circumstanced do—appeared under an assumed name, which she has since kept."
"I understand," said Victor, compassionately. "Poor thing! she has quitted the platform, and is coming this way, evidently to speak to you. I saw her eyes brighten as she caught sight of your face."
Lemercier attempted a languid air of modest self-complacency as the girl now approached him. "Bonjour, M. Frederic! Ah, mon Dieu! how thin you have grown! You have been ill?"
"The hardships of a military life, Mademoiselle. Ah, for the beaux fours and the peace we insisted on destroying under the Empire which we destroyed for listening to us! But you thrive well, I trust. I have seen you better dressed, but never in greater beauty."
The girl blushed as she replied, "Do you really think as you speak?"
"I could not speak more sincerely if I lived in the legendary House of
Glass."