Morosely now
did he make his biceps jump, and exhibit the splendours of his back--
his poses commanded no more than half the admiration evoked by hers.
His muscles had been eclipsed by her graces. Her body had outvied his
own!
Oh, she was dear to him, but he was an "artiste"! There are trials that
an artiste cannot bear. He hesitated to refer to the subject, but when
he nursed her on his lap, he thought what a great fool the Public was
to prefer this ordinary woman to a marvellous man. He derived less
rapture from nursing her. He eyed her critically. His devotion was
cankered by resentment.
And each evening the resentment deepened. And each evening it forced
him to the wings against his will. He stood watching, though every
burst of approval wrung his heart. Soured, and sexless, he watched her.
An intense jealousy of the slim nude figure posturing in the limelight
took possession of him. It had robbed him of his plaudits! He grew to
hate it, to loathe the white loveliness that had dethroned him. It was
no longer the figure of a mistress that he viewed, but the figure of a
rival. If he had dared, he would have hissed her.
Finally, he found it impossible to address her with civility. And
Clairette married Flouflou, after all.
"Clairette," said Flouflou on the day they were engaged, "if you don't
chuck the Statuary turn, I know that one night I shall massacre the
audience! Won't you give it up for me, peach?"
"So you are beginning your ructions already?" laughed Clairette, "I
told you what a handful you would be.
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