All the same, when the date of her debut arrived, she was extremely nervous. Elated by his inspiration. Blond had for once been prodigal with the printing and on her way to the stage door, it seemed to her that the name of "Aphrodite" flamed from every hoarding in the place. Hercule met her with encouraging words, but the ordeal was not one that she wished to discuss with him, and he took leave of her very much afraid that she would break down.
What was his astonishment to hear her greeted with salvos of applause! Blond's enterprise had undoubtedly done the trick. The little hall rocked with enthusiasm, and, cloaked in a voluminous garment, "Aphrodite" had to bow her acknowledgments again and again. When the time came for Hercule's own postures, they fell, by comparison, quite flat.
"Ciel!" she babbled, on the homeward walk; "who would have supposed that I should go so strong? If I knock them like this next week too, I shall make Blond spring a bit more!" She looked towards her lover for congratulations; so far he had been rather unsatisfactory.
"Oh, well," he mumbled, "it was a very good audience, you know, I never saw a more generous house—you can't expect to catch on like it anywhere else."
His tone puzzled her. Though she was quite alive to the weaknesses of her profession, she could not believe that her triumph could give umbrage to her fiancé. Hercule, her adorer, to be annoyed because she had received more "hands" than he had? Oh, it was mean of her to fancy such a thing!
But she was conscious that he had never wished her "pleasant dreams" so briefly as he did that night, and the Strong Man, on his side, was conscious of a strange depression. He could not shake it off. The next evening, too, he felt it. Wherever he went, he heard praises of her proportions. The dancing girl had, in fact, proved to be beautifully formed, and it could not be disputed that "Aphrodite" had wiped "Hercules" out. Her success was repeated in every town. Morosely now did he make his biceps jump, and exhibit the splendours of his back— his poses commanded no more than half the admiration evoked by hers. His muscles had been eclipsed by her graces. Her body had outvied his own!
Oh, she was dear to him, but he was an "artiste"! There are trials that an artiste cannot bear. He hesitated to refer to the subject, but when he nursed her on his lap, he thought what a great fool the Public was to prefer this ordinary woman to a marvellous man. He derived less rapture from nursing her. He eyed her critically. His devotion was cankered by resentment.
And each evening the resentment deepened. And each evening it forced him to the wings against his will. He stood watching, though every burst of approval wrung his heart. Soured, and sexless, he watched her. An intense jealousy of the slim nude figure posturing in the limelight took possession of him. It had robbed him of his plaudits! He grew to hate it, to loathe the white loveliness that had dethroned him. It was no longer the figure of a mistress that he viewed, but the figure of a rival. If he had dared, he would have hissed her.
Finally, he found it impossible to address her with civility. And
Clairette married Flouflou, after all.
"Clairette," said Flouflou on the day they were engaged, "if you don't chuck the Statuary turn, I know that one night I shall massacre the audience! Won't you give it up for me, peach?"