And here, above the graves of two thousand centuries, the little light
feet of Cigarette danced joyously in that triumph of the Living, who
never remember that they also are dancing onward to the tomb.
It was a low-roofed, white-plastered, gaudily decked, smoke-dried
mimicry of the guinguettes beyond Paris. The long room, that was an
imitation of the Salle de Mars on a Lilliputian scale, had some bunches
of lights flaring here and there, and had its walls adorned with laurel
wreaths, stripes of tri-colored paint, vividly colored medallions of the
Second Empire, and a little pink gauze flourished about it, that flashed
into brightness under the jets of flame--trumpery, yet trumpery which,
thanks to the instinct of the French esprit, harmonized and did not
vulgarize; a gift French instinct alone possesses. The floor was bare
and well polished; the air full of tobacco smoke, wine fumes, brandy
odors, and an overpowering scent of oil, garlic and pot au feu. Riotous
music pealed through it, that even in its clamor kept a certain silvery
ring, a certain rhythmical cadence. Pipes were smoked, barrack slang,
camp slang, barriere slang, temple slang, were chattered volubly.
Theresa's songs were sung by bright-eyed, sallow-cheeked Parisiennes,
and chorused by the lusty lungs of Zouaves and Turcos. Good humor
prevailed, though of a wild sort; the mad gallop of the Rigolboche had
just flown round the room, like lightning, to the crash and the tumult
of the most headlong music that ever set the spurred heels stamping and
grisettes' heels flying; and now where the crowds of soldiers and women
stood back to leave her a clear place, Cigarette was dancing alone.
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