In the centre of the room, the four little girls, the youngest of whom was hardly three, were dancing. Wagner, at the piano, provided the music. The smallest child laughed with delight, revealing all her little new teeth, as she strove to follow the steps of the older ones. Her tiny feet tapped the floor vigorously, out of time with the rhythm which the player, himself laughing and exclaiming as much as the dancers, nevertheless marked with much force. When they grew tired of dancing, I went in.
"Oh, did you see?" cried Senta, running toward me. "That is the Tailors' Quadrille. Papa composed it for us."
"The Tailors' Quadrille." Music of Richard Wagner! If one could only remember that music now! If one could only know, at least, that it is written down and preserved! As for me, I seem to hear it again when I recall that scene, which I remember in every detail, and which is, even to-day, as vivid and living as it is exquisite!
XVI
Villiers had some very singular traits of character to which his old friends paid no attention, but which never failed to astonish those who knew him but slightly and had never been forewarned. He experienced, on occasions, a sort of nervous terror which he did not even attempt to resist.
For instance, one day as he was talking with some one at a street corner, he received in his eye an infinitesimal spatter of saliva. Seized with a sudden panic, Villiers darted away from his amazed interlocutor, and with all speed made for the nearest pharmacy.
His vivid imagination had instantly foreseen all the possibilities of calamity, by this venomous drop he felt himself inoculated with the most baleful maladies. He saw himself condemned, lost! To quiet him, the chemist with great haste had made a point of bathing his eye in all sorts of supposedly powerful lotions.
One afternoon at Tribschen, Villiers was playing with the children; tossing a ball, which, to their great glee, he sent very high in the air. Russ, the Newfoundland, bounding from place to place and barking, did his best to join in the sport.
But once, as he gave a strong impetus to the ball, Villiers' recoiling fist struck a sharp blow on the dog's jowl, drawing from him a reproachful whine. Villiers grew pale as he examined his hand, and found a red mark where the dog's tooth had lightly scratched the skin; then, with one haggard look at us, he turned and fled, running as only he could run.