“Who is amusing you? Is it this lady? What post does she want?” asked this nymph, giving the manager such a glance as artist gives artist, a glance that would make a subject for a picture.
Heloise, a young woman of exceedingly literary tastes, was on intimate terms with great and famous artists in Bohemia. Elegant, accomplished, and graceful, she was more intelligent than dancers usually are. As she put her question, she sniffed at a scent-bottle full of some aromatic perfume.
“One fine woman is as good as another, madame; and if I don’t sniff the pestilence out of a scent-bottle, nor daub brickdust on my cheeks—”
“That would be a sinful waste, child, when Nature put it on for you to begin with,” said Heloise, with a side glance at her manager.
“I am an honest woman—”
“So much the worse for you. It is not every one by a long chalk that can find some one to keep them, and kept I am, and in slap-up style, madame.”
“So much the worse! What do you mean? Oh, you may toss your head and go about in scarves, you will never have as many declarations as I have had, missus. You will never match the Belle Ecaillere of the Cadran Bleu.”
Heloise Brisetout rose at once to her feet, stood at attention, and made a military salute, like a soldier who meets his general.
“What?” asked Gaudissart, “are you really La Belle Ecaillere of whom my father used to talk?”
“In that case the cachucha and the polka were after your time; and madame has passed her fiftieth year,” remarked Heloise, and striking an attitude, she declaimed, “‘Cinna, let us be friends.’”