of sorrow. Her taper legs become entangled in those long skirts of our ladies of fashion; she finds herself too much clogged, she who only wants to be free and capricious; and, in trouble, she clumsily conforms to our silly curtsies, always losing her gracefulness and often becoming ridiculous.
I would like to close our doors to her. If I bear with her sometimes beneath the chandeliers, without feeling too sad, it is, thanks to her tablets of love, to her ball-program.
Do you see it in her hand, Ninon, that little book? Look; the clasp and pencil-holder are gold; never was paper more soft or more nicely perfumed; never was there binding more elegant. That is our offering to the goddess. Others have given her the wreath and girdle: we, out of kindness of heart, have made her a present of the ball-program.
She had so many adorers, the poor child, she was so pressed with invitations, that she hardly knew what to do. Each came to admire her, begging for a quadrille, and the coquette always consented. She danced, danced, lost her memory, was overwhelmed with reproaches, and made other mistakes; hence dreadful confusion and frightful jealousy. She withdrew with aching feet and her memory gone. One took pity on her and presented her with the little golden book Since then no more forgetfulness, no more confusion nor injustice. When lovers besiege her she hands them her program; each writes his name there; it is for those who are the most in love to come first. Let them be a hundred, the white pages are numerous. If all have not squeezed her slender waist when the lights of the chandeliers begin to pale, they have only to complain of their own indolence, and not of the child’s indifference.
No doubt the system was simple, Ninon. You must be surprised at my exclamations anent a few leaves of paper. But what charming leaves, exhaling a perfume of coquetry, full of sweet secrets! What a long list of handsome sweethearts, the name of each of whom is an homage, each page an entire evening of triumph and adoration! What a magic book, containing a life of tenderness, in which the profane can only spell out vain names, whilst the young girl reads offhand an account of her beauty and the admiration she excites!
Each comes in turn to make submission, each comes and signs his love-letter. Are they not, indeed, the thousand signatures to a declaration under the rose? Ought one not, if one were of good faith, to write them on the first page, those eternal phrases that are always young? But the little book is discreet; it will not make its mistress blush. It and she alone know what to dream of.
Frankly, I suspect it of being very artful. See how it dissembles, how simple and necessary it makes itself. What is it, if not an aid for memory? Quite a primitive means of doing justice, by giving each one his turn. It speak of love, it agitate young girls! You make a great mistake. Turn over the pages; you will not find the smallest “I love you.” It says truly, nothing is more innocent, more simple, more primitive than I. And, indeed, parents notice it in their daughters’ hands without alarm. Whilst the note signed with a single name is hidden in the bodice, the letter bearing a thousand signatures is boldly exhibited. One meets with it everywhere in broad daylight, in the drawingroom and in the child’s bedchamber. Is it not the least dangerous little book one knows of?
It deceives even its mistress. What danger can there be in an object of such common use, approved, moreover, by one’s parents? She turns the leaves over without fear. It is here that one can accuse the ball-program of absolute hypocrisy. What do you think it whispers in the child’s ear when all is silent? Simple names? Oh! not at all! but real, long, amorous conversations. It has put aside its air of necessity and disinterestedness. It chats and caresses; it is burning, and stutters out tender words. The young girl feels oppressed; trembling, she continues. And all at once the fête reappears, the chandeliers sparkle, the orchestra resounds amorously; suddenly each name is personified, and the ball, of which she was the queen, begins again with its ovations, its fondling and flattering words.
Ah! you rogue of a book, what a procession of young partners! That one there, while gently squeezing her waist, extolled her blue eyes; this one, here, bashful and trembling, could only smile at her; whilst that other talked, talked, without ceasing, paying her all those gallant compliments, which, in spite of their being devoid of sense, say more than long speeches.
And, when the virgin has once forgotten herself with him, the sly rascal knows she will do it again. As a young woman, she turns over the leaves, consults them anxiously to discover what has been the increase in the number of her admirers. She pauses with a sad smile at certain names which are not repeated on the last pages, flighty names which have no doubt gone to enrich other programs.
Most of her subjects remain faithful to her; she passes them in review with indifference. The little book laughs at all that He knows his power; he will receive the caresses of a whole lifetime.
Old age comes, the program is not forgotten. The gilt edges are faded and the leaves hardly hold together. Its mistress, who has become aged as well, seems to like it the more. She still often turns over the pages, and becomes intoxicated with its distant perfume of youth.
Is not that a charming part, Ninon, that of the ball-program? Is it not, like all poetry, incomprehensible to the crowd, and only read fluently by the initiated? Confident of woman’s secrets, it accompanies her through life like an angel of love, smothering her with hopes and remembrances.
II
Georgette had only just left the convent She was still of that happy age when dreams and reality make one; sweet and short-lived epoch, the mind sees what it dreams of and dreams of what it sees. Like all children she had allowed herself to he dazzled by the blazing chandeliers at her first balls; she honestly imagined herself in a superior sphere, among beings who were demigods, in whom the bad side of life had been remitted.
Her cheeks, which were slightly brown, possessed that golden reflex which is peculiar to the bosom of a Sicilian girl; her long black lashes half veiled the flash of her eyes. Forgetting she was no longer under the eye of an assistant schoolmistress, she checked the fierce fire that was burning within her. In a drawingroom she was never anything more than a little timid and almost silly girl, blushing at a word and casting down her eyes.
Come, we will hide behind the great curtains; we shall see the indolent creature stretch her arms and uncover her rosy feet as she awakes. Do not be jealous, Ninon: all my kisses are for you.
Do you remember? Eleven o’clock was striking. The room was still dark. The sun was lost in the thick hangings at the windows, whilst a fairy lamp that was dying out, struggled in vain against the darkness. On the bed, when the flame of the fairy lamp brightened, appeared a white form, a pure forehead, a throat lost in waves of lace; further down, the delicate extremity of a small foot; a snow-like arm with an open hand, hung outside the bed.
Twice the lazy creature turned round on the couch to go off to sleep again, but so light was her slumber that the sudden cracking of a piece of furniture made her half sit up. She thrust back her hair falling in disorder on her forehead, rubbed her eyes swollen with sleep, brought all the corners of her bedclothes over her shoulders, crossing her arms to hide herself the better.
When she was well awake, she stretched out her hand towards a bell-rope hanging beside her; but she rapidly brought it to her again, she sprang to the floor and drew aside the window hangings herself. A bright ray of sunshine filled the room. The child, surprised at the broad daylight, and catching sight of herself in a looking-glass, half nude and with her dress in disorder, felt very much alarmed. She went back and buried herself in bed, all red and trembling at her fine performance. Her chambermaid was a silly curious girl; Georgette preferred her own reverie to that person’s gossip. But, goodness gracious! how light it was, and how indiscreet looking-glasses are!
Now, on the chairs scattered about the room one perceived a ball toilette that had been negligently cast there. Here the young girl, half asleep, had left her gauze skirt, there her sash, a little further on her satin shoes. Her
