“The day after? that’s Saturday—I always dine with my mother on Saturday—Sunday I shall be free as air. Suppose I take you to Versailles on Sunday? we can eat a hare at a country inn, and drink milk. You will accept my invitation will you not?—agreed then. Oh! how delighted I shall be to get into the fields and inhale the fragrance of the flowers. Sunday, then, dear doctor, my carriage shall be at your door at twelve o’clock; I am as exact as a Breguet watch—adieu!”
We have no women in China—it is the only thing our ancestors forgot to invent! If Mademoiselle Alexandrine were to appear at Pekin she would take the empire by storm! You can form no idea of that divine creature—graceful as a bird—speaking as melodiously as she sings—springing as she walks—doing a thousand delicious things in a moment, and throwing at you sweet and flashing glances, like the twinkling of a star.
In quitting my parlor, she left a void which made me nervous. It was necessary to do something not to fall a prey to melancholy. I hurried my servants to the four corners of the street for porters, and in about an hour my room was cleared—before dinner my beautiful danseuse had received every thing. What a sweet night I had! I had the copy of each foot in either hand! and I said to myself, at this moment she is blessing me—she praises my generosity before the altar of Tien—in her eyes a single man exists! and that is me!—for her the rest of the world has disappeared!
With what impatience was Sunday expected—that Sunday which promised me such happiness! I wanted to break all the clocks about me, because they seemed joined in a conspiracy against me, to lengthen out Saturday! Notwithstanding my impatience the hours rolled round, and on Sunday, an age after the clock struck eleven, it announced mid-day.
I stood in my balcony and devoured every carriage with my eyes. At six o’clock I had seen all the carriages in Paris roll by—and I was still alone! Alone! when one has been promised a rendezvous! There is in this deception the very delirium of despair!
As soon as it was proper I ran to visit Mademoiselle de St. Phar. The porter, hardly concealing a smile, said, “Mademoiselle de Saint Phar has gone to the country.”
“When will she return?” asked I, with deathlike visage.
“After Easter or Christmas,” answered the porter.
As I came away I heard loud laughter in chorus from the whole family of porters.
No news of Mademoiselle de Saint Phar! Every night at the opera—but no danseuse. Her name no longer appeared in the bills—it had disappeared from the ballet as her person had from her hotel.