There was Alcide Echauffourees, also a Zephyr, who had his nickname from
the marvelous changes of costume with which he would pursue his erratic
expedition, and deceive the very Arabs themselves into believing him a
born Mussulman; a very handsome fellow, the Lauzun of his battalion,
the Brummel of his Caserne; coquette with his kepi on one side of his
graceful head, and his mustaches soft as a lady's hair; whose paradise
was a score of dangerous intrigues, and whose seventh heaven was a duel
with an infuriated husband; incorrigibly lazy, but with the Italian
laziness, as of the panther who sleeps in the sun, and with such
episodes of romance, mischief, love, and deviltry in his twenty-five
years of existence as would leave behind them all the invention of
Dumas, pere ou fils.
All these and many more like them were the spectators of Cigarette's
ballet; applauding with the wild hurrah of the desert, with the clashing
of spurs, with the thunder of feet, with the demoniac shrieks of
irrepressible adoration and delight.
And every now and then her bright eyes would flash over the ring of
familiar faces, and glance from them with an impatient disappointment
as she danced; her gros bebees were not enough for her. She wanted a
Chasseur with white hands and a grave smile to be among them; and she
shook back her curls, and flushed angrily as she noted his absence, and
went on with the pirouettes, the circling flights, the wild, resistless
abandonment of her inspirations, till she was like a little desert-hawk
that is intoxicated with the scent of prey borne down upon the wind, and
wheeling like a mad thing in the transparent ether and the hot sun-glow.
Pages:
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330