“I married La Castris, monsieur.  I will introduce you to her if you wish it, but she does not get here till later.  This garden, you see, is our delight and our life.  It is all that remains of former days.  It seems as though we could not exist if we did not have it.  It is old and distingue, is it not?  I seem to breathe an air here that has not changed since I was young.  My wife and I pass all our afternoons here, but I come in the morning because I get up early.”

As soon as I had finished luncheon I returned to the Luxembourg, and presently perceived my friend offering his arm ceremoniously to a very old little lady dressed in black, to whom he introduced me.  It was La Castris, the great dancer, beloved by princes, beloved by the king, beloved by all that century of gallantry that seems to have left behind it in the world an atmosphere of love.

We sat down on a bench.  It was the month of May.  An odor of flowers floated in the neat paths; a hot sun glided its rays between the branches and covered us with patches of light.  The black dress of La Castris seemed to be saturated with sunlight.

The garden was empty.  We heard the rattling of vehicles in the distance.

“Tell me,” I said to the old dancer, “what was the minuet?”

He gave a start.

“The minuet, monsieur, is the queen of dances, and the dance of queens, do you understand?  Since there is no longer any royalty, there is no longer any minuet.”

And he began in a pompous manner a long dithyrambic eulogy which I could not understand.  I wanted to have the steps, the movements, the positions, explained to me.  He became confused, was amazed at his inability to make me understand, became nervous and worried.

Then suddenly, turning to his old companion who had remained silent and serious, he said: 

“Elise, would you like—­say—­would you like, it would be very nice of you, would you like to show this gentleman what it was?”

She turned eyes uneasily in all directions, then rose without saying a word and took her position opposite him.

Then I witnessed an unheard-of thing.

They advanced and retreated with childlike grimaces, smiling, swinging each other, bowing, skipping about like two automaton dolls moved by some old mechanical contrivance, somewhat damaged, but made by a clever workman according to the fashion of his time.

And I looked at them, my heart filled with extraordinary emotions, my soul touched with an indescribable melancholy.  I seemed to see before me a pathetic and comical apparition, the out-of-date ghost of a former century.

They suddenly stopped.  They had finished all the figures of the dance.  For some seconds they stood opposite each other, smiling in an astonishing manner.  Then they fell on each other’s necks sobbing.

I left for the provinces three days later.  I never saw them again.  When I returned to Paris, two years later, the nursery had been destroyed.  What became of them, deprived of the dear garden of former days, with its mazes, its odor of the past, and the graceful windings of its hedges?