Then her glance passed to
the figure at the doorway, and with a gesture commanding and
truly royal in its simplicity, she held her hand forth, palm
down, to the Inca king.
Like an obedient trained monkey he trotted across the intervening
space, grasped her soft white hand in his monstrous paw, and
touched his lips to her fingers.
That was all, but it spoke volumes to one who could divine the
springs of action. I remember that at the time there shot through
my mind a story I had heard concerning Desiree in Paris. The Duke
of Bellarmine, then her protector, had one evening entered her
splendid apartment on the Rue Jonteur--furnished, of course, by
himself--and had found his divinity entertaining one Jules
Chavot, a young and beautiful poet. Whereupon he had launched
forth into the most bitter reproaches and scornful denunciations.
"Monsieur," Desiree had said, with the look of a queen outraged,
when he had finished, "you are annoying. Little Chavot amuses me.
You are aware that I never refuse myself anything which I
consider necessary to my amusement, and just now I find you very
dull."
And the noble duke, conquered by that glance of fire and those
terrible words, had retired with humble apologies, after
receiving a gracious permission to call on the following day!
In short, Desiree was irresistible; the subjection of the Inca
king was but another of her triumphs, and not the most
remarkable.
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