Her pretty auburn curls were surmounted by the "Cap of Liberty," draped in crape; her skirt was of the palest yellow silk, with the outlines of our "Lost Provinces" in black; while, symbolical of the day we prayed for, the arms of France were more than half eclipsing those of Germany.
For a moment there was the silence of admiration as she entered, and then a hum of applause burst into a shout as each loyal heart caught the symbolical meaning of the fading colors of the German arms, almost hidden by the simple sweetness of our own dear fleur-de-lis, and patriotic voices cried, "Vive belle Alsace! Vive, vive Lorraine!"
And Thérèse bore the sensation as I would have done myself. I turned a diamond half-hoop on my finger, reflecting it was the last time I could do so, for to-morrow it should be hers.
Strictly obedient to my instructions, she danced but little, always following, with some ostentation of persistence, the movements of a lady who had attracted passing attention—the embodiment of the "Franco-Russe Alliance." It was a quaint sport we favored—the maid watching the maid.
Midnight struck, and from a secluded corner I saw the note passed to Thérèse, who quietly descended the steps, mingled for a moment in the kaleidoscopic throng, and so departed.
Then I added a new gown to the diamond ring, for what other girl could have left a carnival where she was the belle because she had been told to do so?
Like a modern Cinderella, she left it all, and yet, wiser than the damsel of the fairy tale, left before she was discovered, and I, a commonplace "Carmen"—for I remember there were three of us—now felt the decisive moment had arrived. A man had been watching Thérèse as she descended the staircase, and I touched him lightly upon the arm.
"The Provinces are lost, monsieur," I said, softly. "Be content with operatic Spain," and I hummed a melody of Bizet's.
"You, madame?" he cried, as he recognized my voice.
"Yes, I."