Charles de Morlay-La-Branche withdrew to the rear of the long room,
and stood alone, leaning against a beautiful Italian window, to listen
and to watch. A conflict of feelings were struggling within him. He was
fighting against the attraction of this slender creature, whose white
shoulders and delicate body were swaying with a phrase now violent, now
subdued, her whole person actuated, controlled by the rhythm of the
music. The heavy frame work of Count Styvens seemed an anchor for the
fragile idol. The Duke gnawed his lip in suppressed emotional anger.
As the young couple left their seats the room shook with applause.
Everybody was delighted. The Princess took Esperance by both hands,
gazing at her, stroking the tapering fingers that were still vibrating
with the fever of the music. Esperance was so pale that the Princess
led her into another room and made her sit down, praising her
marvellous execution and striving to quiet the little heart she could
feel beating with so much agitation.
"The Doctor who attends me," Esperance explained in a far-away voice,
"has told me, Madame, that I must avoid all excitement if I wish to
live a long time, but that I shall not live naturally if I am over
excited or depressed by emotion."
They brought her a refreshing and soothing drink. The Princess's
attendant bathed her temples with Eau de Cologne. Esperance breathed
more quietly and rose, thanking the Princess; then suddenly collapsed
on her knees, sobbing, without strength, without consciousness, and
Madame Darbois was summoned to her side at once.
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