' She is Fanchon
herself--saucy, daring, generous, irresistible Fanchon! And she is
beautiful as the angels above."
The play went on; Fanchon danced, and sobbed, and sung, and wept, and
was mischievous as a scratching kitten, and gentle as a turtle-dove;
took all the hearts by storm, and was triumphantly reunited to her lover
at last.
I don't know how many young men in that audience were left without
an atom of heart, how many would have given their two ears to be in
handsome Landry Barbeaud's boots.
The roof nearly rose with the thunders of applause when the curtain
fell, and Carl Walraven got up with the rest, his head whirling, his
brain dizzy.
"Good Heaven!" he thought, stumbling along the dark, chilly streets to
his hotel, "what a perfectly dazzling little witch she is! Was there
ever such another sparkling, bewildering little fairy in the world
before?"
Mr. Walraven spent the night in a fever of impatience. He was one of
those men who, when they set their hearts on anything, find no peace, no
rest, until they obtain it. He had come here partly through curiosity,
partly because he dare not refuse Miriam; he had seen Mary Dane, and lo!
at first sight he was dazzled and bewitched.
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