“I asked if it were she. Yes, I know her very well, for I saw a gentleman unmask her on the balcony above there, to kiss her. It is she who dances so wonderfully at the Opéra Comique. You have seen her, Mademoiselle Fée. Ah, come. Let us dance. It is the most perfect waltz.”
At the close of the waltz the owl came and took the little gypsy away from Robert, and a moment later he heard the mellifluous voice of his companion of the banquet.
“I am so weary, monsieur. Take me away where we may refresh ourselves.”
The red-brown eyes looked pleadingly into his, and the slender fingers rested on his arm, and together they wandered to a corner of palms where he seated her and brought her cool wine jelly and other confections. She thanked him 398 sweetly, and, drooping, she rested her head upon her hand and her arm on the arm of her chair.
“So dull they are, these fêtes, and the people––bah! They are dull to the point of despair.”
She was a dream of gold and white as she sat there––the red-gold hair and the red-brown eyes, and the soft gold and white draperies, too clinging, as the little gypsy had indicated, but beautiful as a gold and white lily. He sat beside her and gazed on her dreamily, but in a manner too detached. She was not pleased, and she sighed.
“Take the refreshment, mademoiselle; you will feel better. I will bring you wine. What will you have?”
“Oh, you men, who always think that to eat and drink something alone can refresh! Have you never a sadness?”
“Very often, mademoiselle.”
“Then what do you do?”