basket
of artificial flowers, one of them was saying: "After the mazurka, I'll
take _him_ out into the garden, where I'll manage to make him kiss me."

Which of them? It is easy to imagine her: they are all alike. She
laughs, I am certain, and expands her budding breasts; her beaded tunic
sparkles and strikes a rivulet of light against her pretty legs; she has
glossy hair faultlessly dressed and when she turns round in the mazurka,
you see she has one of those plump, discreet faces over which feelings
slide without leaving a mark.

But I am forgetting. Mother had to take part in the dance too, as it was
the only one she knew and it unrolled tender memories. She braced
herself, then started off, her features gently composed, leaning on my
father, who accommodated his step to hers while seeming to guide her.
"Let's see, that's not it ..." and they set out again--one, two, three,
four--heavy, both of them, with their reputation as a happy, united
couple, and laden with the looks that follow them.

If one knew....

The engaged couples have disappeared, swallowed up by the nearest dark
corners, where passion is of scarlet and nothing exists but arms and
lips and bodies surmised. When the music will have finished and they
will have reappeared, the chatter and the sharp raw laugh of the young
fiancee will be heard; she will open her eyes wide, like this; her
childish mouth will be seen, and her slim figure, which retains an air
of awkward shyness. "How unsophisticated she is," they will say in
gratitude to her for being an example of the velvety purity of the young
girls.

The last measures. They are all perspiring, out of breath, soberly
triumphant, and as they go back to their chairs each man gives a last
squeeze of the slender arm he is about to relinquish.

My father is entirely engrossed in his guests; he has led mamma, dizzy,
back to her chair, and has moved off. As she sits there with her
eyelashes fluttering, you would think she has returned from a wonderful
long journey. "I am happy, happy," she is reflecting. "I have such a
good husband." The wounds of every day are closed--they have to be
overlooked--and if any cloud darkens the horizon, it is that she is
thinking of me: "But that is what marriage means, my little daughter;
you'll see, it is just a big renunciation: you will change, you too, and
do like the rest; look at me; am I unhappy?"

No, you are not unhappy, my poor little mother, with your injured v