On the dancer’s face the smile came again and did not pass.
“Willingly. It will give me pleasure, madame!”
“That is well! Your dresses shall be brought. This evening in the refectory after the meal. If you wish music—one can place a piano. Sister Mathilde is a good musician.”
“Music—some simple dances. Madame, could I smoke?”
“Certainly, my daughter. I will have cigarettes brought to you.”
The dancer stretched out her hand. Between her own thin hands the Mother Superior felt its supple warmth. To-morrow it would be cold and stiff!
“Au revoir! then, my daughter....”
“The dancer will dance for us!” This was the word. One waited, expectant, as for a miracle. One placed the piano; procured music; sat eating the evening meal—whispering. The strangeness of it! The intrusion! The little gay ghosts of memories! Ah! the dramatic, the marvellous event! Soon the meal was finished; the tables cleared, removed; against the wall on the long benches sixty grey white-coifed figures waited—in the centre the Mother Superior, at the piano Sister Mathilde.
The little elderly Sister came first; then, down the long whitened refectory, the dancer swaying slowly over the dark-oak floor. Every head was turned—alone the Mother Superior sat motionless. If only it did not put notions into some light heads!