There was silence. In the luminous void of the circus, high up in the air there were shining things in nickel—trapezes—and a rope was stretched down to the ring.
The orchestra burst forth. Helia kissed Sœurette and passed out with a run before the duke and Caracal. Her mantle, left hanging as if by chance, gave a glimpse of a rosy shoulder. On the threshold of the ring she stopped and threw off the mantle. It was like the unveiling of a statue.
She wore the short tunic of the dancers of Pergamus. The clinging stuff was fastened at the shoulder and hung to a point on each side, leaving arms and neck and the upper part of the breast uncovered; a light skirt fell straight to the ankles.
Helia looked at the public long enough to smile and bow. Then, with a quick spring, she leaped to the tightly stretched rope, and with agile bare feet climbed up its incline to the platform in front of her trapeze. The light brought out the whiteness of her skin and her red cheeks, and glittered back from a little star-shaped jewel in the black hair above her forehead.
There was a murmur of sympathy. The public applauded and cried: “Brava!” Helia had done nothing yet, but the audience was already won. The orchestra, after a moment’s silence, suddenly broke forth and Helia began.
At first, to accustom the public to the notion of the movements, she leaped upright on the trapeze, which swung over to the platform. This had been foreseen. The three trapezes in their swing almost touched each other. They were hung from light steel tubes and oscillated like a single mechanism, without break or twist.
Helia, with infinite grace, went through a few exercises. It was the Waking of the Goddess—the first astonished gestures of a statue called to life by the inspiration of a Pygmalion. Then she let herself fall as if overcome by dizziness, grasped the bar as she slipped down without apparent shock, and—almost before the folds of her gown could fall back gracefully—she was again on the trapeze, magnificent and at her ease. She balanced herself gently and gave a backward leap to the platform.
The public broke forth in applause. It felt itself in the presence of a healthy and robust art. This was no acrobat limited to one single task, with legs heavy by dint of walking on the ball, or shoulders by walking on the hands. But here was the accomplished gymnast—the all-round artiste, with her muscles obedient and supple. In her they acclaimed the poetry of the body and the melody of movement.
To give Helia a moment’s rest, Cemetery entered, stumbled at the entrance of the ring, fell on his nose, rolled over, and pulled himself up by the rope. His pantomime expressed delight and fear at the spectacle, high above him, of this creature of light and beauty. His pursed-up mouth and rounded eyes had the look of weeping. He walked out scratching his wig.
The public laughed.