And what a dreary time Monday morning was, with the music and laughter of the night before still ringing in your ears, and the prospect of six long days of close confinement and drudgery before you!
But with what growing impatience and transports of joy you watched the approach of the longed-for day.
It comes at last, and then what exuberant happiness!
Oh, rare and modest joys that have never been impaired by satiety!
But Madame Herbaut's guests were not philosophising much that evening. They were reserving their philosophy for Monday.
These untiring young people were whirling swiftly around the room to the inspiring strains of a lively polka; and such was the magic of the strains that even the ladies and gentlemen in the drawing-room, in spite of their age and the grave preoccupations of Pope Joan and loto,—the only games Madame Herbaut allowed,—moved their heads to and fro and kept time with their feet, in short, executed a sort of antiquated sitting polka, which testified to the skill of the musician at the piano.
And this musician was Herminie.
About a month had passed since her first meeting with Gerald. Had other meetings followed that interview begun under most unpleasant auspices and ending with a gracious forgiveness? We shall know in due time.
This evening, in a dress of some soft, pale blue material that cost, perhaps, twenty sous a yard, and a large bow of ribbon of the same delicate hue in her magnificent golden hair, the duchess was ravishingly beautiful.
A faint rose tint suffused her cheeks, her large blue eyes shone like stars, and her half smiling scarlet lips revealed a row of pearl-white teeth, while her girlish bosom rose and fell gently beneath the thin fabric that veiled it, and her little foot, daintily clad in a satin slipper, beat time to the strains of the lively polka.