D'Erfeuil now heard the name of Corinne from the ball-room, and went to learn what was doing there. Nevil followed him to the door, and saw the handsome Neapolitan Prince Amalfi soliciting her to dance the Tarantula with him. All her friends joined in this request. She waited for no importunity, but promised with a readiness which astonished d'Erfeuil, accustomed as he was to the refusals with which it is the fashion to precede consent. In Italy these airs are unknown; there, every one is simple enough to believe that he cannot better please society than by promptly fulfilling whatever it requires. Corinne would have introduced this natural manner, if she had not found it there. The dress she had assumed was light and elegant. Her locks were confined by a silken fillet, and her eyes expressed an animation which rendered her more attractive than ever. Oswald was uneasy; displeased with his own subjection to charms whose existence he was inclined to deplore, as, far from wishing to gratify him, it was almost in order to escape from his power that Corinne shone forth thus enchantingly; yet, who could resist her seducing grace? Even in scorn she would have been still triumphant; but scorn was not in her disposition. She perceived her lover; and blushed, as she bestowed on him one of her sweetest smiles. The Prince Amalfi accompanied himself with castanets. Corinne saluted the assembly with both hands; then, turning, took the tambourine, which her partner presented to her, and she beat time as she danced. Her gestures displayed that easy union of modesty and voluptuousness, such as must have so awed the Indians when the Bayardères--poets of the dance--depicted the various passions by characteristic attitudes. Corinne was so well acquainted with antique painting and sculpture, that her positions were so many studies for the votaries of art. Now she held her tambourine above her head; sometimes advanced it with one hand, while the other ran over its little bells with a dexterous rapidity that brought to mind the girls of Herculaneum.[1] This was not French dancing, remarkable for the difficulty of its steps; it was a movement more allied to fancy and to sentiment. The air to which she danced, pleased alternately by its softness and its precision. Corinne as thoroughly infected the spectators with her own sensations as she did while extemporizing poetry, playing on her lyre, or designing an expressive group. Everything was language for her. The musicians, in gazing on her, felt all the genius of their art; and every witness of this magic was electrified by impassioned joy, transported into an ideal world, there to dream of bliss unknown below.