Pantheon. Daphne Wing. Plastic Danseuse. Poetry of Motion. To-day at
three o'clock. Pantheon. Daphne Wing."
Ah, SHE had loved him--little Daphne! It was past three. Going in, he
took his place in the stalls, close to the stage, and stared before him,
with a sort of bitter amusement. This was irony indeed! Ah--and here
she came! A Pierrette--in short, diaphanous muslin, her face whitened to
match it; a Pierrette who stood slowly spinning on her toes, with arms
raised and hands joined in an arch above her glistening hair.
Idiotic pose! Idiotic! But there was the old expression on her face,
limpid, dovelike. And that something of the divine about her dancing
smote Fiorsen through all the sheer imbecility of her posturings. Across
and across she flitted, pirouetting, caught up at intervals by a Pierrot
in black tights with a face as whitened as her own, held upside down, or
right end up with one knee bent sideways, and the toe of a foot pressed
against the ankle of the other, and arms arched above her. Then, with
Pierrot's hands grasping her waist, she would stand upon one toe
and slowly twiddle, lifting her other leg toward the roof, while the
trembling of her form manifested cunningly to all how hard it was; then,
off the toe, she capered out to the wings, and capered back, wearing
on her face that divine, lost, dovelike look, while her perfect legs
gleamed white up to the very thigh-joint.
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