Her dress costume only rendered her more beautiful; her foot alone was always the same. It seemed to live in a perpetual motion; one might well say that it contained the soul of the _danseuse_, and that she thought with her dear little toes. “Sir,” said she, taking me familiarly by the hands, “I am the happiest girl in the world! your present is truly royal. Sit down upon this chair, and let us converse a little. I wish to present to you my little sister, a perfect angel, as you’ll see.” A young girl about twelve years old, as graceful as a fawn, leaped into my arms, and seized my mandarin’s cap from my head. “What do you think of her,” said the _danseuse_. “She is your sister,” said I, with an expressive glance. “Still gallant, dear doctor!” “What is her name, Mademoiselle?” “She has none yet, doctor; she waits for a godfather—it is the custom at the Opera. Will you be hers?” “Very willingly, Mademoiselle.” “Give her, then, a pretty name—some name of your country.” “Very well; then I name her ‘Dileri,’ which is a Mogul name.” “What does it mean?” “_Light of the eyes._ Does it please you, Mademoiselle?” “Dileri is charming! Do the Moguls have such soft names, doctor?—and they are still Moguls. It is wonderful! Mademoiselle Dileri, thank your godfather.” With that marvellous refinement with which the spirit of the great Fo has imbued his faithful followers, and which renders them superior to all of human kind, I asked Mademoiselle Alexandrine, negligently, “if she had any taste for marriage?” “Ah!” said she, crossing her beautiful feet upon a footstool of crimson velvet, “it is not marriage that I fear, it is the husband. You do not know French husbands, dear doctor. Such egotists! They marry a pretty woman to have a slave, in spite of the law which forbids trading in human flesh; and when they have her fast enchained, they show her as a curiosity to their friends to excite their envy. Well, since China is now opened, we will go to China to seek husbands. Dear doctor, you will not find in all Paris a husband who would give his wife thirty-three fans without any pretension, as if he merely said, ‘good-day!’ Are the Chinamen good husbands, doctor?” “Mademoiselle, ’twas a Chinaman who invented the honeymoon!” “I do not doubt it. What a pity the Chinawomen have such queer eyes.” “For that reason we come to seek wives at Paris.” “Truly, doctor, you are _adorable_! and I am confused by your kindness. I do not know how to express my sense of your compliments, and gratitude for your splendid presents. May I not offer you a box in the fourth tier for your suite? Giselle is performed to-morrow. My cousin has written a play for the Theatre d’Ambigu; I will ask him for a box for you this evening. Perhaps you will accept a free ticket for a month on the railroad to Rouen.” “Thanks, Mademoiselle! I am as grateful for your kind offers as if I had accepted them. But I have a favor to ask.” “It is already granted—speak.”