The evening telegraph. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1864-1918, 1871-02-15

to the praises of her black eyes, and rosy lips,
and pearly teeth, her dimples, and her little
feet 1t seemed a strange caprice that her
shoes, though fashioned of the daintiest satin,
we're always bright red. All Paris knew and
admired the ''little red foot, and some noble
ladies already began to wear shoes a Ia
Petttpde.
The famous ballerina led life Of Joy aud
gayety, and, but for a cloudy remembrance
Of the lost jacques which fitted now aud
then across her sky, she could hardly have
believed in the existence of shadows.
But one evening, just at the close Of the
ballet, as she ended her dance amid the ap-
plauding shouts of the multitude, and in her
gauzy dress and floating, rose-w wreathed hair,
stepped behind the sidescenes, boy pressed
through the clustering throng of her al
mirers, and whispered to the beautiful dau-
seuse:-
''Come home, Camille Petitpas Your
father is dying!"
Camille forgot her waiting carriage-forgot
all but the one fact that her father was dying
Desthly pale, regardless of all anxious ais
and questionings, she threw a mantle over
her light costume, and ran out along the
street in her silken shoes so hurriedly that
the messenger of evil tidings could scarcely
follow her
BreAthless with haste, she entered her
fathers house. The workshop was lighted,
for the master had ordered his bed to be re-
moved to the familiar room. The sick man
sat erect, surrounded by the dark forms of
his workmen, his eyes and cheeks glowing
with fever. He did not recognize his child,
who, sobbing, seized his hand.
''Wbo is the strange woman he cried, as
if in terror. ''Call my child to ms-my
merry little girl in the red shoes-that she
may dance my heart light and may hear
once more her joyous laugh :"
Then the ballerina stole away into her own
little chamber of the old time, and took from
an old chest q simple little frock. With
trembling fingers she braided her hair, and,
twisting scarf about her shoulders, ran
quickly downstairs.
''Me cOjci, papa =" she said.
And Camille herself took down the keys
from the nail, and began to play, as once
Jacques had done, but the tears ran down her
cheeks, as she danced in her red shoes by the
freight A smile of rapture overspread the
face of the dying man.
''Sbe looks like my poor wife once more,
he murmured. SIT is Camille, my happy
child-and Jacques will come and take care
of her."
He sank backward.
81 will sleep now," he said, softly. "Greet
Jacques, and-kiss me !"
She kissed him, sobbing. He turned his
face to the wall. 1t was very still in the
workshop: no one dared to move; only the
sparks of the smiths fire crackled and flew
upward. Low and lower the ballerina bent
over the motionless figure; cry escaped her
lips-her father was dead.
Years had passed since then. Camille Petitpas
was still the darling of Paris, unrivalled, ex-
cept by one-Anne Capuis de Camargo. But
jealousy had no abiding place in Camille's
warm heart, and if, sometimes, she wept a
tnor to al ,aTt
to her friends irresistible charm, aud en-
brace her with the more passionate enthu-
sasm.
Sitting, one night, among her so-called
friends, of whom all except Camargo secretly
lopged to eclipse and supplant her, Camille
looked radiant and care-free, as if some good
fairy had laid in her bosom the gift of immor-
tai youth and beauty. No one of them all had
SO cbild-like laugh as she. She could not
wear her costly robes with
the Camargo's royal air, and
many of her vivacious gestures and express
sions recalled the locksmith's little daughter,
dancing in the workshop in her red-leather
shoes; but this only added piquancy to her
charms.
Just now she sat in somewhat careless
attitude, beating time with her ravishing
feet upon the back of her little lapdog. Her
pretty head was thrown back; a leaf or two
Uuu IHIlcD lTOuu tuO lTtbn TOS6 hb uoT i6lb car,
and the string of pearls in her hair touched
her rounded shoulder. A kitten, wearing a
golden necklace, played with faded bouquet,
which lay upon the train of her costly, silk
embroidered robe.
The new Duke Felix de Balbe- Berton and
the philosopher Etienne Cordillac had taken
their places beside the hostess, and upon the
tabouret before her sat handsome Captain
Jacques, just breveted for his gallantry in
the war against Bavaria, at the side of young
Louis Francois Cont, and under the com.
mand of the Marshal de Belle-Isle.
Who but the balerina would ever have
recognized in this stately hero, whose brave
face and burning eyes took captive every
womans heart, the young journeyman smith
who had vanished so tracklessly when Camille
Petitpas went to the ballet-master's house.
He had, indeed, ''gope with the soldiers,
and bad made himself known to mis-
foster brother, the Prince de Cont.
Returned to Paris, he fastened to
call upon the renowned ballerina, who re-
ceived him with loud exclamations of delight.
Yet, with all her Joy, she had little wish to
become his wife. jacques might, indeed, be
the darling of the young prince; but-he was
always poor. very poor, and Camille liked
satin garments and Alencon laces, aud a
merry, careless life, and dreaded every
serious attachment.
How different seemed the Camargo, sitting,
little way off, In her blue-sik costume
how strangely grave the type of her beauty
None could resist the charm of the features,
modelled after the antique; the beaming,
blue eyes, shadowed by long, black lashes;
the delicate, ethereal form; the slow, pure
grace of motion; the chaste, sweet lips. But,
though men deified Anne Capuis do Camargo,
they scarcely dared to love her; only women
al, 49,