That elusive, nocturnal company, “The Mistick Krewe of Comus,” had appeared––“Comus, deep skilled in all his mother’s witcheries”––and the dwellers in Phantasmagoria were joyfully numerous. More plentiful than at a modern spectacular performance, reveled gods, demons and fairies, while the children resembled a flight of masquerading butterflies. The ball at the theater, the Roman Veglioni, succeeded elaborate tableaux, the “Tartarus,” of the ancients, and “Paradise Lost,” of Milton, in which the “Krewe” impersonated Pluto and Proserpine, the fates, harpies and other characters of the representation. In gallery, dress-circle and parquet, the theater was crowded, the spectacle, one of dazzling toilets, many of them from the ateliers of the Parisian modistes; a wonderful evolution of Proserpine’s toga and the mortal robes of the immortal Fates. Picture followed picture: The expulsion from Paradise; the conference of the Gorgons, and the court of pandemonium, where gluttony, drunkenness, avarice and 477 vanity were skilfully set forth in uncompromising colors.

Availing themselves of the open-house of the unknown “Krewe,” a composite host that vanished on the stroke of twelve, many of “Old Rough and Ready’s” retinue mingled with the gathering, their uniforms, well-worn, even shabby, unlike the spick and span regimentals from the costumier. With bronzed faces and the indubitable air of campaigns endured, they were the objects of lively interest to the fair maskers, nor were themselves indifferent to the complaisance of their entertainers. Hands, burned by the sun, looked blacker that night, against the white gowns of waists they clasped; bearded faces more grim visaged in contrast with delicate complexions; embroidery and brocade whirled around with faded uniforms; and dancing aigrettes waved above frayed epaulets and shoulder straps.

“Loog at ’im!” murmured a fille À la cassette, regarding one of these officers who, however, held aloof from the festivities; a well-built young man, but thin and worn, as though he, like his uniform, had seen service. “If he would only carry my trunk!” she laughed, relapsing into French and alluding to the small chest she bore under her arm.

“Or my little white lamb!” gaily added her companion, a shepherdess.

And they tripped by with sidelong looks and obvious challenge which the quarry of these sprightly huntresses of men either chose to disregard or was 478 unconscious of, as he deliberately surveyed his surroundings with more curiosity than pleasure and absently listened to a mountebank from “The Belle’s Strategem.”

“Who’ll buy my nostrums?” cried the buffoon.

“What are they?” asked Folly, cantering near on a hobby horse.

“Different kinds for different people. Here’s a powder for ladies––to dispel the rage for intrigue. Here’s a pill for politicians––to settle bad consciences. Here’s an eye-water for jealous husbands––it thickens the visual membrane. Here’s something for the clergy––it eliminates windy discourses. Here’s an infusion for creditors––it creates resignation and teaches patience.”

“And what have you for lovers?”

“Nothing,” answered the clown; “love like fever and ague must run its course. Nostrums! Who’ll buy my nostrums?”

“Oh, I’m so glad I came!” enthusiastically exclaimed a tall, supple girl, laden with a mass of flowers.

“Isn’t it too bad, though, you can’t polka with some of the military gentlemen?” returned her companion who wore a toga and carried a lantern. “Mademoiselle Castiglione wouldn’t let you come, until I promised not to allow you out of my sight.”

“It was lovely of you to take me,” she said, “and I don’t mind about the military gentlemen.”

“My dear, if all women were like you, we poor civilians would not be relegated to the background! 479 I wish, though, I had worn some other costume. This––ahem, dress!––has a tendency to get between my legs and disconcert my philosophical dignity. I can understand why Diogenes didn’t care about walking abroad. My only wonder is that everybody didn’t stay in his tub in those days. Don’t talk to me about the ‘noble Roman!’ Why, he wore skirts!”

“And Monsieur Intaglio lectured to us for an hour to-day about the wonderful drapery of the ancients!” laughed the girl. “The poetry of dress, he called it!”

“Then I prefer prose. Hello!”––pausing and raising his lantern, as they drew near the officer who had fallen under the observation of the fille À la cassette. “Colonel Saint-Prosper, or set me down for an ass––or Plato, which is the same thing!”

“Straws!” said the soldier, as the bard frankly lifted his mask and tilted it back over his forehead.

“Glad to see you!” continued the poet, extending his hand. “I haven’t run across you before since the night of the banquet; the dÉbut of Barnes’ company you remember? You must have left town shortly afterward. Returned this morning, of course! By the way, there’s one of your old friends here to-night.”

Saint-Prosper felt the color mount to his face, and even Straws noted the change. “Who is that?” asked the soldier, awkwardly.

“Mrs. Service––Miss Duran that was––now one of our most dashing––I should say, charitable, ladies. Plenty of men at Service’s church now. She’s 480 dressed in Watteau-fashion to-night, so if you see any one skipping around, looking as though she had just stepped from the Embarkation for the Island of Venus, set her down for the minister’s pretty wife!”

“And the minister?” asked Saint-Prosper, mechanically.

“He brought her; he compromised on a Roundhead costume, himself! But we must be off. Au revoir; don’t be backward; the ladies are all military-mad. It may be a field of arms”––casting his glance over the assemblage of fashionably dressed ladies, with a quizzical smile––“but not hostile arms! Come, Celestina––Nydia, I mean!”

And Straws’ arm stole about the waist of his companion, as Saint-Prosper watched them disappearing in the throng of dancers. It was Celestina’s first ball, and after her long training at the Castiglione institute, she danced divinely. Evidently, too, she was reconciled to the warden’s edict, denying her the freedom of the ball-room, for she showed no disposition to escape from Straws’ watchful care. On the contrary, though her glance wandered to the wonders around her, they quickly returned to the philosopher with the lamp, as though she courted the restraint to which she was subjected. Something like a pang shot through the soldier’s breast as he followed the pair with his gaze; he seemed looking backward into a world of youth and pleasure, passed beyond recall.

“It is useless to deny it! I knew you when I first saw you!” exclaimed a familiar voice near by, and 481 turning around sharply, the officer observed approaching a masked lady, graceful of figure and lacking nothing in the numerical strength of her escort. It was to her that these words were addressed by an agile man of medium stature who had apparently penetrated her disguise. The lady, who would have attracted attention anywhere by her bearing, wore a pardessus of white gauze, fitting close and bordered with a silver band; the sleeves, short; the skirt of white gauze and very ample, as the fashion of the day required; the feet shod in small white silk “bottines”; the hair in bands, ornamented with wild poppies. Altogether this costume was described by Phazma as “ravishing, the gown adorning the lady, and the lady the gown, her graces set forth against the sheen of voluminous satin folds, like those of some portrait by Sir Joshua or Gainsborough.”

“How could you expect any one not to know you?” continued the speaker, as this little coterie drew near, their masks a pretext for mystery. “You may impersonate, but you can not deceive.”

“That is a poor compliment, since you take me for an actress,” laughed the lady. An hilarious outburst from an ill-assorted cluster of maskers behind them drowned his reply, and the lady and her attendants passed on.

Saint-Prosper drew his breath sharply. “She is here, after all,” he said to himself.

“A nostrum for jilted beaux!” called out a mountebank, seeing him standing there, preoccupied, alone, 482 at the same time tendering a pill as large as a plum. A punchinello jarred against him with: “Pardonnez moi, pardie!” On the perfumed air the music swelled rapturously; a waltz, warm with the national life of Vienna; the swan song of Lanner! Softly, sweetly, breathed “Die SchÖnbrunner;” faster whirled the moving forms. Eyes flashed more brightly; little feet seemed born for dancing; cheeks, pale at midday, were flushed with excitement! Why doesn’t he dance, wondered the lady with the white lamb. Carnival comes but once a year; a mad, merry time; when gaiety should sweep all cares out of doors!

hummed the lively nymph, as she tripped by.

she concluded, throwing a glance over her shoulder.

A sudden distaste for the festal ferment, the laughter and merriment; a desire to escape from the very exuberance of high spirits and cheer led the soldier to make his way slowly from the ball-room to the balcony, where, although not removed from the echoes of liveliness within, he looked out upon the quietude of the night. Overhead stretched the sky, a measureless 483 ocean, with here and there a silvery star like the light on a distant ship; an unfathomable sea of ether that beat down upon him. Radiant and serene, in the boundless calm of the heavens, the splendent lanterns seemed suspended on stationary craft peacefully rocked at anchor. Longings, suppressed through months of absence, once more found full sway; Susan’s words were recalled by the presence of the count.

Suddenly the song of “Die SchÖnbrunner” ceased within, and, as its pulsations became hushed, many of the dancers, an elate, buoyant throng, sought the balcony. Standing in the shadow near the entrance, aroused from a train of reflections by this abrupt exodus, the soldier saw among the other merry-makers, Constance and the count, who passed through the door, so near he could almost have touched her.

“Here she is,” said the count, as they approached an elderly lady, seated near the edge of the balcony. “Ah, Madam,” he continued to the latter, “if you would only use your good offices in my behalf! Miss Carew is cruelty itself.”

“Why, what has she done?” asked the good gentlewoman.

“Insisted upon deserting the ball-room!”

“In my day,” said the elderly ally of the nobleman, “you could not drag the young ladies from cotillion or minuet. And the men would stay till the dawn to toast them!”

“And I’ve no doubt, Madam, your name was often on their lips,” returned the count gallantly, who evidently 484 believed in the Spanish proverb: “Woo the duenna, not the maid; then in love the game’s well played!”

The ally in his cause made some laughing response which the soldier did not hear. Himself unseen, Saint-Prosper bent his eyes upon the figure of the young girl, shadowy but obvious in the reflected light of the bright constellations. Even as he gazed, her hand removed the mask, revealing the face he knew so well. In the silence below, the fountain tinkled ever so loudly, as she stood, half-turned toward the garden, a silken head-covering around her shoulders; the head outlined without adornment, save the poppies in her hair.

Her presence recalled scenes of other days: the drive from the races, when her eyes had beamed so softly beneath the starry luster. Did she remember? He dared not hope so; he did not. To him, it brought, also, harsher memories; yet his mind was filled most with her beauty, which appeared to gloss over all else and hold him, a not impassive spectator, to the place where she was standing. She seemed again Juliet––the Juliet of inns and school-house stages––the Juliet he had known before she had come to New Orleans, whose genius had transformed the barren stage into a garden of her own creation.

And yet something made her different; an indefinable new quality appeared to rest upon her. He felt his heart beating faster; he was glad he had come; for the moment he forgot his jealousy in watching 485 her, as with new wealth of perfume, the languid breeze stirred the tresses above her pallid, immovable features. But the expression of confidence with which the count was regarding her, although ostensibly devoting himself to her companion, renewed his inquietude.

Had she allowed herself to be drawn into a promised alliance with that titled rouÉ? Involuntarily the soldier’s face grew hard and stern; the count’s tactics were so apparent––flattering attention to the elderly gentlewoman and a devoted, but reserved, bearing toward the young girl in which he would rely upon patience and perseverance for the consummation of his wishes. But certainly Constance did not exhibit marked preference for his society; on the contrary, she had hardly spoken to him since they had left the ball-room. Now clasping the iron railing of the balcony, she leaned farther out; the flowers of the vine, clambering up one of the supports, swayed gently around her, and she started at the moist caress on her bare arm.

“It is cold here,” she said, drawing back.

“Allow me––your wrap!” exclaimed the count, springing to her side with great solicitude.

But she adjusted the garment without his assistance.

“You must be careful of your health––for the sake of your friends!” Accompanying the words with a significant glance.

“The count is right!” interposed the elderly gentlewoman. “As he usually is!” she added, laughing.

“Oh, Madam!” he said, bowing. “Miss Carew does not agree with you, I am sure?” Turning to the girl.

“I haven’t given the matter any thought,” she replied, coldly. She shivered slightly, nervously, and looked around.

At that moment the lights were turned on in the garden––another surprise arranged by the Mistick Krewe!––illuminating trees and shrubbery, and casting a sudden glare upon the balcony.

“Bravo!” said the count. “It’s like a fÊte-champÊtre! And hear the mandolins! Tra-la-la-la-la! Why, what is it?”

She had given a sudden cry and stood staring toward the right at the back of the balcony. Within, the orchestra once more began to play, and, as the strains of music were wafted to them, a host of masqueraders started toward the ball-room. When the inflow of merry-makers had ceased, bewildered, trembling, she looked with blanched face toward the spot where the soldier had been standing, but he was gone.

At that moment the cathedral clock began to strike––twelve times it sounded, and, at the last stroke, the Mistick Krewe, one by one began to disappear, vanishing as mysteriously as they had come. Pluto, Proserpine, the Fates, fairies and harpies; Satan, Beelzebub; the dwellers in pandemonium; the aids to 487 appetite––all took their quick departure, leaving the musicians and the guests of the evening, including the visiting military, to their own pleasures and devices. The first carnival had come to a close.