Just as she was ending, a globe was passed up to her, and she placed it on the bar. Then she stood upright on it, in the vast oscillations of the trapeze. She was like a goddess soaring in space with the earth under her feet.
Then Helia stopped motionless.
The orchestra ceased; the lights were extinguished; and suddenly, like a star falling in the night, Helia fell down to the net.
There was a moment’s anguish, and then the lights and orchestra—lightning and thunder—began again, as in a storm. Helia was on the ground, offering, with a gesture, her heart to the crowd.
She was called back again and again. Bouquets were thrown to her—the public would have her out once more! At last she retired, worn out, and, putting off her stage-smile, she shook hands all round.
“There’ll be no bouquets left for the marquesa,” Suzanne said. “But her horse may be accustomed, by this time, to the bravos!”
“You must be tired, Mademoiselle Helia?” the duke asked.
“It’s my trade,” said Helia. “We smile to the public all the same; it would not be nice to show that it is work!”
And, with a gracious salutation to the duke, she went back to her dressing-room.
“You haven’t invited her to supper!” Caracal remarked to the duke, when she had gone.