“You are not thirsty? Very well. You’ll drink after some time. In the meantime will you play us a quadrille? and mark the time, please.”
Then imitating with distressing accuracy the barking voice of masters of ceremonies at public balls, she called out,—
“Take your positions, take your positions: a quadrille!”
Henrietta had taken her seat at the piano. She turned her back to the dancers; but she had before her a mirror, in which she saw every gesture of Mrs. Hilaire and her guests. And then she became quite sure of what she had suspected from the beginning. She understood into what company she had been inveigled by the concierge’s wife. She had, however, sufficient self-control to finish the quadrille. But, when the last figure had been danced, she rose; and, walking up to the mistress of the house, said, stammering painfully, and in extreme embarrassment,—
“Please excuse me, madam, I have to leave. I feel very unwell. I could not play any more.”
“How funny!” cried one of the gentlemen. “Here is our ball at an end!”
But the young woman said,—
“Hush, Julius! Don’t you see how pale she is,—pale like death, the poor child! What is the matter with you, darling? Is it the heat that makes you feel badly? It is stifling hot here.”
And, when Henrietta was at the door, she said,—
“Oh, wait! I do not trouble people for nothing. Come, Julius, turn your pockets inside out, and give the little one a twenty-franc-piece.”