as he began, “Now you are a widow and just as poor as any cow-girl of Appenzell—thank God.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed doubtfully—“Ah?”
“Now we soldiers are the whole thing. The Revolution thought it annihilated the officer—and it made him the Lord God. I’ll take you out of this hole—Quintus will find a way to do it.”
“Wait,” said Blanchefleure—“there comes the minuet again.”
In fact the musicians began to play again that enchanting melody of the old days, dancing to which one said more with eyes and finger tips than the plebian waltz knows. And the frivolous crowd took their places for the dance.
“Perhaps it is the last minuet,” said apologetically Blanchefleure, with her graceful laugh. “I should never cease regretting not having danced it—with you, M. Captain.”
The poor young man looked down at her confused, as she took him by the hand.
“Don’t be afraid. We have now equality and fraternity. What—don’t you believe in them?”
The sweet, melancholy, coquettish dance of Frivolity which was about to die, began. It was the minuet from Don Giovanni, and they played it just before the stroke of fate—impertinent, frivolous and graceful as the music. As they approached, Primus Thaller continued with his honorable wooing. “I love you as no other and you must be my wife.”
The teasing, backward movement of this dance of coquetry carried Blanchefleure away from him. Her
