mpany after the most approved fashion.

The French have a proverb, "Bete comme une danseuse;" and I must say
that my fair friend did not prove an exception. Her whole idea of life
was limited to what takes place in rehearsal of a morning, or on the
night of representation. She recounted to me her history from the time
she had been a "Rat,"--such is the technical term at the Grand Opera of
Paris,--flying through the air on a wire, or sitting perilously perched
upon a pasteboard cloud. Thence she had advanced to the state of Fairy
Queen, or some winged messenger of those celestials who wear muslin
trousers with gold stars, and always stand in the "fifth position."
Passing through the grade of Swiss peasant, Turkish slave, and
Neapolitan market-girl, she had at last arrived at the legitimate drama
of "legs," yclept "ballet d'action;" and although neither her beauty
nor abilities had been sufficient to achieve celebrity in Paris, she
was accounted a Taglioni in the "provinces," and deemed worthy of
exportation to the colonies.

"Non contingit cuique ad ire Corinthum!" we cannot all have our "loges"
at the "Grand Opera;" and happy for us it is so, or what would become of
the pleasure we derive from third, fourth, and fifth rate performances
elsewhere? True, indeed, if truffles were a necessary of life, there
would be a vast amount of inconvenience and suffering. Now, Mademoiselle
Heloise, whose pirouettes were no more minded in Paris, nor singled out
for peculiar favor, than one of the lamps in the row of footlights, was
a kind of small idol in the Havana. She had the good fortune to live in
an age when the heels take precedence of the head, and she shared in
the enthusiasm by which certain people in our day would bring back the
heathen mythology for the benefit of the corps de ballet.

Alas for fame! in the very climax of her glory she grew fat! Now, flesh
to a danseuse is like cowardice to a soldier, or shame to a lawyer,--it
is the irreconcilable quality. The gauzy natures who float to soft
music must not sup. Every cutlet costs an "entrechat"! Hard and terrible
condition of existence, and proving how difficult and self-denying a
thing it is to be an angel, even in this world!

So much for Mademoiselle Heloise; and if the reader be weary of her, so
was I.

"You'll have to treat her to a supper," whispered Falk-oner, as he
passed me.

"I've not a cent in my purse," said I, thinking it better to tell the
truth than i