laughed. 'She might have grandchildren herself, I think,' she
said.

'Yes, my child, if you scraped the paint you might find the grandmother
beneath. Indeed, the Geyling is nearly as old as I am,' laughed Madame de
Ruth, delighted at Wilhelmine's judgment of the woman whom she hated.
'But see,' she continued, 'here comes the figure dance.' As she spoke the
doors at the end of the dancing-hall opened, and the musicians in the
gallery began to play a lilting strain. Quite slowly through the gilded
doors came a tiny figure dressed in wreaths of leaves and flowers, a
golden bow in his hand, and at his side a miniature quiver filled with
paper arrows. 'The Geyling's nephew,' said Madame de Ruth, 'and the only
good thing about her! A charmingly naughty child, who they hope,
however, will play his Cupid's role to-night, though he is as likely as
not to do exactly the reverse, for he is by nature a god of mischief!'

The child walked solemnly to the centre of the hall, and there began to
dance a rapid skipping measure, waving his bow over his head the while.

The onlookers burst into applause. Then the music softened to an
accompaniment, and boys' voices from the musicians' loft sang in parts.

'Bad verses, my dear,' grunted Madame de Ruth, 'yet a pretty air. They
say the Geyling wrote the rhymes--that explains it!' But her grumble was
lost to Wilhelmine, who was observing the entry of four rather lightly
clad nymphs, who came forward in a graceful swaying line, encircling the
child, who stood stock-still in the midst wondering, poor mite, if this
long game would soon be ended. At length the four nymphs sank to their
knees before the boy, holding out their arms to him, while the voices in
the gallery warbled with ever-increasing rapture.

The child ran from one kneeling figure to the other: first to
Mademoiselle de Gemmingen, then to Mademoiselle de Varnbueller, to
Mademoiselle de Reischach, and before his aunt, Madame de Geyling, the
little fellow stopped and took his aim, with his bow and paper arrows.
Everything was going admirably, never had this Cupid behaved so exactly
as arranged. Already the Geyling was feigning to fall backwards in
affected alarm, when Cupid whipped round saying, in a high childish
treble, 'Non, ma tante, je ne te choisis pas, tu es trop mechante!'

An audible titter went round the audience, for the Geyling was
universally disliked. Cupid now thoroughly entering into the mischief of
the game, ran