“Monsieur, I cannot dance.... I do not know how.”
“What does it matter? It all depends on your partner....”
He gave Mme. Chambannes a quick wink, either friendly or ironical, as if he were winning a bet.
“No danger, Mademoiselle, I guarantee the waltz....”
Sharply, in a sudden need to see him well, to take in all his features, Thérèse looked at him fixedly. She could not resist. Perspiration ran down her back. She was dominated by the desire to be in those arms, as once she had been in others so very much like them. She rose shortly, her voice almost harsh in spite of the smile with which she tried to correct it, and said:
“Very well, monsieur, let us try.”
Gerald put one arm round her and they began to whirl. At the first steps she stumbled out of ignorance and fear of losing the rhythm. Then he lifted her as if she were a child and carried her off gently among the dancers. Her feet no longer touched the floor. Couples brushed lightly against her. She had the impression of sliding in rhythms upon clouds with a robust lover. She closed her eyes. Voluptuous sobs choked her throat. He thought she was out of breath and stopped.
“Well, mademoiselle.... What did I say?... It goes beautifully....”
Thérèse approved with a nod; her thin lips were pale with pleasure. The count went on paternally:
“Dancing is like swimming!... You must throw yourself blindly into it.... Music pushes you along like waves.... Then, after that, you have nothing to do but let yourself go....”