intelligence by the agility of its feet. An incoherent and monotonous
music of African inspiration was satisfying the artistic ideals of
a society that required nothing better. The world was dancing . . .
dancing . . . dancing.

A negro dance from Cuba introduced into South America by mariners who
shipped jerked beef to the Antilles, conquered the entire earth in a few
months, completely encircling it, bounding victoriously from nation to
nation . . . like the Marseillaise. It was even penetrating into the
most ceremonious courts, overturning all traditions of conservation and
etiquette like a song of the Revolution--the revolution of frivolity.
The Pope even had to become a master of the dance, recommending the
"Furlana" instead of the "Tango," since all the Christian world,
regardless of sects, was united in the common desire to agitate its feet
with the tireless frenzy of the "possessed" of the Middle Ages.

Julio Desnoyers, upon meeting this dance of his childhood in full swing
in Paris, devoted himself to it with the confidence that an old love
inspires. Who could have foretold that when as a student, he was
frequenting the lowest dance halls in Buenos Aires, watched by the
police, that he was really serving an apprenticeship to Glory? . . .

From five to seven, in the salons of the Champs d'Elysees where it cost
five francs for a cup of tea and the privilege of joining in the sacred
dance, hundreds of eyes followed him with admiration. "He has the key,"
said the women, appraising his slender elegance, medium stature, and
muscular springs. And he, in abbreviated jacket and expansive shirt
bosom, with his small, girlish feet encased in high-heeled patent
leathers with white tops, danced gravely, thoughtfully, silently, like
a mathematician working out a problem, under the lights that shed bluish