Returning to my hotel after the Opera, I wished to meditate upon my position, but my ideas wandered. You know my harem of Khé-Emil—it is the most modest of harems—scarcely can one count in it fifteen women of Zhe-hol of Tartar blood, and as many of Thong-Chou-fo, of pure Chinese race, not to speak of some twenty or more odalisques, maintained merely as decorations to the seraglio. Well, if Mademoiselle entered that harem, she would eclipse my favorites among its women, as the light of the full moon puts out the morning star. Yes, I have, unhappily, discovered that her face charms me more than my whole thirty, shut up in my modest harem. It is an unhappy fate! Happy are the three mandarins of the seventh class, who have accompanied me to Paris. They dine at the Rocher de Cancale; they eat beef in spite of the beard of Menu; they attend the minister’s soirées, and know nothing of the exquisite foot of Mademoiselle Alexandrine de St. Phar.
The next morning at eight o’clock, I sent to her porter the thirty-three fans, with a box of the delicious tea of “Satouran.”
In the afternoon I dressed myself in court costume, my mandarin’s cap of canary-yellow, ornamented with a plume of Leu-tze, and long robe of the color clair de la lune, with gloves of citron-colored crape. My glass told me I resembled the young Tcheon, the Prince of Light, and Son of the Morning. Flattered by my mirror, I went to visit Mademoiselle Alexandrine, and was introduced with the most surprising facility.
Her dress costume only rendered her more beautiful; her foot alone was always the same. It seemed to live in a perpetual motion; one might well say that it contained the soul of the danseuse, and that she thought with her dear little toes.
“Sir,” said she, taking me familiarly by the hands, “I am the happiest girl in the world! your present is truly royal. Sit down upon this chair, and let us converse a little. I wish to present to you my little sister, a perfect angel, as you’ll see.”
A young girl about twelve years old, as graceful as a fawn, leaped into my arms, and seized my mandarin’s cap from my head.
“What do you think of her,” said the danseuse.
“She is your sister,” said I, with an expressive glance.
“Still gallant, dear doctor!”
“What is her name, Mademoiselle?”