Her
heart sank as she saw that the King had partially turned away from the
stage, and was chatting carelessly with some person or persons behind
him, and that only a statuesque woman with a pale face, great eyes, and
a crown of diamonds, regarded her steadily with a high-bred air of
chill indifference, which was sufficient to turn the little warm
beating heart of her into stone. A handsome youth stared down upon her
smiling,--his eyes sleepily amorous,--it was the elder of the King's
two younger sons, Prince Rupert. She hated his expression, beautiful
though his features were,--and hated herself for having to dance before
him. Poor little Pequita! It was her first experience of the insult a
girl-child can be made to feel through the look of a budding young
profligate. On and on she danced, giddily whirling;--the thoughts in
her brain circling as rapidly as her movements. Why would not the King
look at her,--she thought? Why was he so indifferent, even when his
subjects sought most to please him? At the end of the second act of the
Opera a great fatigue and lassitude overcame her, and a look of black
resentment clouded her pretty face.
"What ails you?" said Zouche, sauntering up to her as she stood behind
the wings; "You look like a small thunder-cloud!"
She gave an unmistakable gesture in the direction of that quarter of
the theatre where the Royal box was situated.
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