A negro dance from Cuba introduced into South America by mariners who shipped jerked beef to the Antilles, conquered the entire earth in a few months, completely encircling it, bounding victoriously from nation to nation . . . like the Marseillaise.  It was even penetrating into the most ceremonious courts, overturning all traditions of conservation and etiquette like a song of the Revolution—­the revolution of frivolity.  The Pope even had to become a master of the dance, recommending the “Furlana” instead of the “Tango,” since all the Christian world, regardless of sects, was united in the common desire to agitate its feet with the tireless frenzy of the “possessed” of the Middle Ages.

Julio Desnoyers, upon meeting this dance of his childhood in full swing in Paris, devoted himself to it with the confidence that an old love inspires.  Who could have foretold that when as a student, he was frequenting the lowest dance halls in Buenos Aires, watched by the police, that he was really serving an apprenticeship to Glory? . . .

From five to seven, in the salons of the Champs d’Elysees where it cost five francs for a cup of tea and the privilege of joining in the sacred dance, hundreds of eyes followed him with admiration.  “He has the key,” said the women, appraising his slender elegance, medium stature, and muscular springs.  And he, in abbreviated jacket and expansive shirt bosom, with his small, girlish feet encased in high-heeled patent leathers with white tops, danced gravely, thoughtfully, silently, like a mathematician working out a problem, under the lights that shed bluish tones upon his plastered, glossy locks.  Ladies asked to be presented to him in the sweet hope that their friends might envy them when they beheld them in the arms of the master.  Invitations simply rained upon Julio.  The most exclusive salons were thrown open to him so that every afternoon he made a dozen new acquaintances.  The fashion had brought over professors from the other side of the sea, compatriots from the slums of Buenos Aires, haughty and confused at being applauded like famous lecturers or tenors; but Julio triumphed over these vulgarians who danced for money, and the incidents of his former life were considered by the women as deeds of romantic gallantry.

“You are killing yourself,” Argensola would say.  “You are dancing too much.”

The glory of his friend and master was only making more trouble for him.  His placid readings before the fire were now subject to daily interruptions.  It was impossible to read more than a chapter.  The celebrated man was continually ordering him to betake himself to the street.  “A new lesson,” sighed the parasite.  And when he was alone in the studio numerous callers—­all women, some inquisitive and aggressive, others sad, with a deserted air—­were constantly interrupting his thoughtful pursuits.