CHAPTER IV.

A dance and A promise.

Our little French friend, Madame Didier, was not a woman to do things by halves.  She was one of those rare exceptions among Parisian ladies—­she was a perfectly happy wife; nay, more, she was in love with her own husband, a fact which, considering the present state of society both in France and England, rendered her almost contemptible in the eyes of all advanced thinkers.  She was plump and jolly in appearance; round-eyed and brisk as a lively robin.  Her husband, a large, mild-faced placid man—­“mon petit mari,” as she called him—­permitted her to have her own way in everything, and considered all she did as perfectly well done.  Therefore, when she had proposed this informal dance at the Hotel de L——­, he made no objection, but entered into her plans with spirit; and, what was far more important, opened his purse readily to her demands for the necessary expenses.  So nothing was stinted; the beautiful ballroom attached to the hotel was thrown open, and lavishly decorated with flowers, fountains, and twinkling lights; an awning extended from its windows right down the avenue of dark ilex-trees, which were ornamented with Chinese lanterns; an elegant supper was laid out in the large dining-room, and the whole establishment was en fete.  The delicious strains of a Viennese band floated to our ears as Colonel Everard, his wife, and myself descended the staircase on our way to the scene of revelry; and suggestions of fairyland were presented to us in the graceful girlish forms, clad in light, diaphanous attire, that flitted here and there, or occasionally passed us.  Colonel Everard marched proudly along with the military bearing that always distinguished him, now and then glancing admiringly at his wife, who, indeed, looked her very best.  Her dress was of the finest Brussels lace, looped over a skirt of the palest shell-pink satin; deep crimson velvet roses clustered on her breast, and nestled in her rich hair; a necklace of magnificent rubies clasped her neck, and the same jewels glittered on her round white arms.  Her eyes shone with pleasurable excitement, and the prettiest colour imaginable tinted her delicate cheeks.

“When an American woman is lovely, she is very lovely,” I said.  “You will be the belle of the room to-night, Amy!”

“Nonsense!” she replied, well pleased, though, at my remark.  “You must remember I have a rival in yourself.”

I shrugged my shoulders incredulously.

“It is not like you to be sarcastic,” I said.  “You know very well I have the air of a resuscitated corpse.”

The Colonel wheeled round suddenly, and brought us all up to a standstill before a great mirror.

“If you are like a resuscitated corpse, I’ll throw a hundred dollars into the next mud-pond,” he observed.  “Look at yourself.”