This is the
second lady's own ground, however, and now she comes out--in a way that
banishes far from our fickle minds all thoughts of the first lady and her
mistaken child--with a medley of singing and dancing, a bit of breakdown,
of cancan, of jig, a bit of "Le Sabre de mon Pere," and of all memorable
slang songs, given with the most grotesque and clownish spirit that ever
inspired a woman. Each member of the company follows in his or her _pas
seul_, and then they all dance together to the plain confusion of the
amateur trio, whose eyes roll like so many Zuyder Zees, as they sit lonely
and motionless in the midst. All stiffness and formality are overcome. The
evening party in fact disappears entirely, and we are suffered to see the
artists in their moments of social relaxation sitting as it were around
the theatrical fireside. They appear to forget us altogether; they
exchange winks, and nods, and jests of quite personal application; they
call each other by name, by their Christian names, their nicknames.
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