The evening was extraordinarily fresh and the small party beamed with smiles as they floated out into the courtyard. A cool breeze blew from the Riviera and ran a little chill across the necks of the bare-shouldered ladies that only invigorated their élan.
Benoît tenderly grabbed the scarf of the woman that was swirling around him and whispered into her ear. She brushed his hand away fluidly and kept her eyes locked upon him as she reeled beneath his arm.
“Buggatti!” she sang, “Be more caring with your rough paws! This was a gift from Chatov!” And then in a softer tone, “But, yes ... Get the car!”
Benoît blew a kiss into the air and jogged around the corner while the friends continued their lively display. A minute later the loud rumble of the Amilcar drowned out the gaieties. Benoît pulled in front of the group and revved the engine as he donned his driving-goggles.
Mary glided over to her friend. She was flinging the crimson scarf into the air.
“Isadora,” she said over the din of the unmuffled motor, “are you leaving us already? Where are you going?”
Isadora stopped her dancing, twisted the enormous scarf twice around her neck and bounded to the waiting car.
“Goodbye, my friends! I am off to love!” she exclaimed.
As Mary watched the little topless car speed off down the cobble-stoned streets of Nice on September 24th, 1927, she saw a red streamer flap in the breeze for a split-second and then whip back under the car. The car skidded to a stop a few seconds later.
Isadora Duncan, scandalous bohemian, mother of modern dance, lay conspicuously crooked against the door of the car, her neck snapped completely in half by the force of the scarf being sucked into the spoked-wheels.