She had pitted herself against him; and she won--so far.
The vivacity, the impetuosity, the antelope elegance, the voluptuous
repose that now and then broke the ceaseless, sparkling movement of her
dancing, caught his eyes and fixed them on her; it was bewitching, and
it bewitched him for the moment; he watched her as in other days he had
watched the fantastic witcheries of eastern alme, and the ballet charms
of opera dancers.
This young Bohemian of the Barrack danced in the dusky glare and
the tavern fumes of the As de Pique to a set of soldiers in their
shirt-sleeves with their short, black pipes in their mouths, with as
matchless a grace as ever the first ballerinas of Europe danced before
sovereigns and dukes on the boards of Paris, Vienna, or London. It was
the eastern bamboula of the Harems, to which was added all the elastic
joyance, all the gay brilliancy of the blood of France.
Suddenly she lifted both her hands above her head.
It was the signal well known, the signal of permission to join in that
wild vertigo for which every one of her spectators was panting; their
pipes were flung away, their kepis tossed off their heads, the music
clashed louder and faster and more fiery with every sound; the chorus
of the Marseillaise des Bataillons thundered from a hundred voices--they
danced as only men can dance who serve under the French flag, and
live under the African sun. Two, only, still looked on--the Chasseur
d'Afrique, and a veteran of the 10th company, lamed for life at
Mazagran.
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