morning because I get up early."

As soon as I had finished luncheon I returned to the Luxembourg, and
presently perceived my friend offering his arm ceremoniously to a very
old little lady dressed in black, to whom he introduced me. It was La
Castris, the great dancer, beloved by princes, beloved by the king,
beloved by all that century of gallantry that seems to have left behind
it in the world an atmosphere of love.

We sat down on a bench. It was the month of May. An odor of flowers
floated in the neat paths; a hot sun glided its rays between the branches
and covered us with patches of light. The black dress of La Castris
seemed to be saturated with sunlight.

The garden was empty. We heard the rattling of vehicles in the distance.

"Tell me," I said to the old dancer, "what was the minuet?"

He gave a start.

"The minuet, monsieur, is the queen of dances, and the dance of queens,
do you understand? Since there is no longer any royalty, there is no
longer any minuet."

And he began in a pompous manner a long dithyrambic eulogy which I could
not understand. I wanted to have the steps, the movements, the positions,
explained to me. He became confused, was amazed at his inability to make
me understand, became nervous and worried.

Then suddenly, turning to his old companion who had remained silent and