“The belle of all Brittany,” said Lorrimer proudly. “I discovered her when I was sketching at Pont Aven last summer. I’m going to win the Prix de Rome with a picture of that girl. I’m the envy of the Quarter. Several Academicians have tried to get her away from me; but she’s loyal,—as good as she looks.”
I did not find it easy to talk to Rougette. Her French was the argot of the Quarter, grafted on to the patois of the Breton peasant; mine, of the school primer. Our conversation consisted chiefly of smiles, and circumspect ones at that, as Anastasia had her eye on me.
“After another dance,” suggested Lorrimer, “let’s go over to the Lilas. We’ll probably see Helstern there. I’d like you to meet him. Besides it’s the night the Parnassian crowd get together. Perhaps you’ll be amused.”
“Delighted.”
“All right.”
Off they went with their arms around each other’s necks, and I watched them swiftly mingle with the dancers. What a pretty couple they made!—Lorrimer so dashing and debonair, with his face of a sophisticated cherub, and his auburn hair that looked as if it might have been enamelled on his head, so smooth was it; Rougette with the mien of a goddess and the simple soul of a Breton fishwife.
But it was hard to follow them now, for the throng on the floor had doubled. In ranks that reached to the side galleries the spectators hemmed them in. The variety of costume grew more and more bewildering. Men were dressed as women, women as men. Four monks entered arm in arm with four devils; Death danced with Spring, an Incroyable with a stone-age man, an Apache with a Salomé. More and more négligé grew the costumes as models, mannequins, milliners, threw aside encumbering garments. Every one was getting wound up. Yells and shrieks punctuated the hilarity; then the great orchestra burst into a popular melody and every one took up the chorus:
“Down in Mozambique, Mozambique, Mozambique,
It’s so chic, oh so chic;
No need to bother over furs and frills.