So Archag took her at her word and gave up trying to waltz.
All the young people of Aleppo were invited to the Rossinian’s party. There were the daughters of the English consul, there were pretty young girls of the Levant, loaded with jewels and gewgaws, and there were dapper secretaries from the different consulates, whose only serious purpose in life seemed to be dancing with young girls. Archag felt embarrassed in the midst of all this fine society; he noticed that his brown suit and blue tie attracted attention; the young men turned to look at him, and the girls whispered to one another and shrugged their shoulders. Nejib had offered to lend him a dinner-jacket, but he was too proud to accept it, and now he was sorry. Miss Pritchard, swathed in mauve silk, with a bunch of violets poised at the top of her capillary edifice, looked him over disdainfully. Winnie, to be sure, had said a few pleasant words to him, but she was too much occupied with receiving her guests to give him much time. For a while he sat by himself in a corner, looking over a book, for the sake of appearances; then Nejib came looking for him, to announce supper.
“Ghel tchabouk (hurry up), I want to present you to Mademoiselle Maréchal, for you have to take her in to supper.”
Archag followed him, greeted the young lady with an awkward bow, and offered her his arm. At the table he felt very much out of his element. His companion, the daughter of a rich French merchant, took no notice of him; she would reply dryly to the few remarks which the boy addressed to her, and would then turn to join in the merriment of those near her at the table.
The young people were lingering over dessert, when the enticing strains of a polka were heard; they rose at once, and each of the young men invited the girl whom he had taken in to supper to be his partner in this first dance. The couples formed gradually; Archag had made up his mind not to dance, but when he saw himself left almost alone with Mademoiselle Maréchal, who was looking at him in some embarrassment, he summoned all his courage, and asked her to be his partner. And the polka was so easy, he need not be afraid of making a blunder. All went well at first, and Archag began to congratulate himself on getting out of the difficulty so well. But, alas, he had not reckoned with the parquet floors to which he was not accustomed. He slipped, and fell full length, dragging his partner down with him. Mademoiselle Maréchal got up in a rage, hearing the ill-suppressed laughter of the other dancers. Archag was crimson with shame, as he stammered out a few words of apology, but the young beauty cut him short:
“Ah, that’s a little too much! When one doesn’t know how to dance, one at least refrains from making himself ridiculous!”
Archag longed for the earth to open and swallow him; but that being impossible, he went off to hide himself behind a group of foliage plants. The heat was suffocating and his head throbbed; he thought of his own relatives, so simple in their ways, and felt how out of place he was in this ball-room.
His reverie was interrupted by the sound of approaching voices. He would have liked to slip away unperceived, but it was now too late; the newcomers were already seated on a divan, and Archag, hidden behind his screen of foliage, heard everything they said.
One of the young men was congratulating Winnie on the success of her party, and the others added their praises. This sort of conversation was not interesting to our friend, and his thoughts were far away again, when he was startled by hearing his own name spoken.
“What has become of your Baron Archag?” said some one.