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achieve for yet another great dancer. The pas d'entrainement, with which the eerie child of the waves fascinates the fisher-boy, was for years to remain Varsovina's supreme triumph. although the pas de l'ombre, that exquisite dance in which the Naiad, capricious, wanton, unearthly, lures her mortal rival into the water, was to strike many who saw it as the greatest expression of a dancer almost terrifying in her very intangibility. For the Ondine was in many respects Hans Andersen's little Mermaid, she who, lacking a soul, must at any moment dissolve into foam and vanish for ever from mortal eyes. And after the ballet, when she took call after call, her enthusiasts pelted the stage with such a profusion of white camellias that the dancer's silver sandals were almost buried beneath a snowdrift of these blooms. The clouds of gauze and tulle in which she danced were also in their turn to enjoy a modish popularity; it became the fashion for the pretty ladies of the Second Empire to demand from their couturiers dresses a la Naiade, which meant that these charming slaves of fashion floated about Paris trying with all their might to appear tremendously ethereal and ghostly.

And Lina herself was fêted now, and supped with Monsieur de Morny, and met the picturesque gaudy adventurers of her time and period, and, inevitably, grew before long a little bored with Pierre de Beauvais. He was, to begin with, intolerably proprietory; he loved to exhibit his mistress to his friends as though she were some highly educated poodle trained to jump through a hoop.

"Dance, Lina, dance just for one moment! Piek up your skirts and show them some fantastic step or other!"

"I don't dance in my salon, Pierre—only on the stage. Surely you know that by now?"

"Such airs and graces! You're impossible! Look, Lina, Monsieur Gavarni wants to sketch your foot."

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