Dance my loves
  You are but dolls.

And she makes them dance on every cord and every tune.

But soon the figures are effaced and blend into one.  The pomatumed band disappear into space, whence there rises clearly the image of the chosen one.

He is young, he is dark or fair:  she has seen him to-day; she looked at him, he smiled at her, he thinks her pretty.

Is she then always pretty?  And quickly she goes to her mirror.  Heavens! how badly her hair is done.  How badly that ribbon sets!  If she had put it in another place?  And that little wandering lock; decidedly it must set off that.  “Perhaps he would like me better if, instead of plaits, I had curls, and if instead of the brown dress, I put on the blue?”

He.  Who is he?  He is the imaginary lover, the handsome young man whom she has met in the street, he who turned round to look at her, or the one who was so charming at the last ball, or again the one who has just passed the window.

Who is he?  Does she know?  It is the one she is waiting for.  The first who presents himself who is handsome, young, intelligent and rich.  What does the rest matter provided he possesses all these qualities, and all these qualities he must possess.

Often she has never even seen him, but he is charming, and she feels that she loves him already.

And there are the brilliant displays of the future appearing, the enchanted palaces which are built out of the chapters of novels which never will be finished.

And thus every evening—­wild adventures in the young brain, intrigues in embryo, meetings full of mystery, delightful terrors with phantom lovers, until at length a very palpable one presents himself, and comes and knocks at the door of reality.

Sometimes he is very far from the cherished dream.  He is neither young, nor handsome, nor rich, nor intelligent.  She rather makes a face, but she ends by taking him.  It is a man.

And meanwhile mamma has said as she kisses her daughter’s forehead, “Sleep well, my daughter,” and she murmurs to papa, “What an angel of candour!”

LXIX.

THE GUST OF WIND.

“I turned my eyes instinctively towards the lighted window, and through the curtains which were drawn, I distinctly caught sight of a woman, dressed in white, with her hair undone, and moving like one who knows that she is alone.”

  G. DROZ (Monsieur, Madame, et Bebe).

Suzanne’s room ... but why should I describe the room?... let me describe Suzanne to you at this secret hour:  I am sure that you would prefer me to do so.

The young people who read this, will do well to skip this chapter, it interests the men alone.  Like the preacher who one day turned the women out of church, as he wanted to keep the men only, I warn over-chaste young ladies that these lines may shock....