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Such was the story, which, wedded to wild and passionate music, had taken the public by storm on its first representation, not only on account of its own merit, but because it gave their new favourite, Pequita, many opportunities for showing off her exquisite grace as a dancer.
Cheer after cheer echoed through the crowded room, and while the noise was at its height a knocking was heard outside and Sholto, the hunchback father of Pequita, demanded admittance. Zegota unlocked the door, and in a few minutes the situation was explained to the astonished landlord of the Revolutionary Committee quarters.
Her thoughts flew to her kindest friend, Pasquin Leroy; she remembered the starry diamond in the ring he had wished to give her, and how he had said, 'Pequita, the first time you dance before the King, this shall be yours! Where was he now, she wondered?
He went away very mysteriously, no one knows where he has gone, or when he will come back." "I am not surprised!" said Pequita; "With such a father and mother, and such impudent-looking brothers, no wonder he wanted to get away!" Zouche had another fit of laughter. He had never seen the little girl in such a temper. He tried to assume gravity. "Pequita, you are naughty!
And Pequita closed her tiny teeth on her scarlet under-lip in suppressed anger; "But I have not danced before him yet! I will!" Zouche looked at her sleepily. He was not drunk though he had, of course, been drinking. "You have not danced before him? Then what have you been doing?"
Something to suggest a fairy hopping over mushrooms in the moonlight? or Shakespeare's Ariel swinging on a cobweb from a bunch of may?" Pequita considered, and for a moment did not reply, while Zouche, still holding her little brown hand, kissed it again. "You are very fond of dancing?" asked Pasquin Leroy, looking at her dark face and big black eyes with increasing interest.
"Upon my word!" he exclaimed; "A little experience of the world has given you what newspaper men call 'local colour. The 'cold woman with the face like a mask, is the Queen!" Pequita made a little grimace of scorn. "And who is the leering boy?" "Prince Rupert." "The Crown Prince?" "No. The Crown Prince is travelling abroad.
'Mourir c'est rien, mais souffrir! That is the hard part of it! Let us all pray for the Pope, my friends! he is an old man!" "When you are silent, Zouche," said Thord with a half smile; "We may perhaps meditate upon him in our thoughts, but not while you talk thus volubly! You take up time and Pequita is getting tired."
Comments ran freely from lip to lip, Sergius Thord had been seen, pale as death, laying flowers on the deck to the last, the King, yes! the King himself had sent a wreath, as a token of remembrance, to the obsequies of the woman who had saved his life, the purple velvet pall, with its glittering fringes of gold, had been the gift of the city of which Thord was the lately-elected Deputy, Louis Valdor had sent that garland of violets, the great wreath of roses which lay at the head of the coffin, was the offering of the famous little dancer, Pequita, who, it was said, now lay sick of a fever brought on by grief and fretting for the loss of her best friend, and rich and poor alike had vied with one another in assisting the weird beauty of this exceptional and strange burial, in which no sexton was employed but the wild wind, which would in due time scoop a hollow in the sea, and whirl down into fathomless deeps all that remained of a loving woman, with the offerings of a People's love around her!
"Shall I dance now?" enquired Pequita. Lotys smiled and nodded. Four or five of the company at once got up, and helped to push aside the table. "Will you play for me, Monsieur Valdor?" asked the little girl, still standing by the side of Zouche. "Of course, my child! What shall it be?
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