Elle qui Danse
Written for Manon.
From her window above the square, Fleur-de-Lys can see the gipsy-girl dancing. From her balcony, she can hear the jingling of the coins on the tambourine that shake and clink when the gipsy-girl beats it as she spins around. It's hard to see from so high up, but Fleur-de-Lys can make out her little feet moving as quick as raindrops splashing, and the coloured ribbon in her hair, and she can see her eyes--she is too far away to make out the colour, but they're sweet eyes, darkish, always dancing, just as fast as the gipsy-girl's feet, looking at everybody and everything.
As Fleur-de-Lys watches, those eyes dance around the square and up, up, up to the sky, dashing past the sun, coming down again. They fly past the fancy stone house-fronts; and suddenly they meet Fleur's, just for a moment, just for the barest moment, those darkish eyes and her own blue ones; and the gipsy-girl smiles, and spins, and her rainbow skirt swirls around her like a great, shining scarf.
Then Fleur-de-Lys turns away from the window, and turns back again, and covers her eyes with hands, and then leans over the balcony, to see the gipsy-girl dancing.
And the gipsy, twirling, spinning, dancing, throws up her hands, turns in the light, glows with her colours down in the square--and Fleur-de-Lys begins to cry, because suddenly her heart is hurting.
Back to the Index.