It was the year 1860, and it was the carnival season, which unluckily was very brief that year. We say unluckily, for we admit that we do not agree with the people who say:

"Masks have gone out of fashion; it isn't the thing to disguise yourself now to drive or walk on the boulevards. No, no! That's all gone by, forgotten, bad form! Before long, there won't be any carnival."

In the first place, we do not understand why such people frown upon something that tends to amuse and rejoice the common people. It may not make you laugh, monsieur, who seem always to be in a bad humor, and whose nerves are unstrung when you see other people enjoying themselves. I am very sorry for you! But I assure you that, in the old days, when, during the pre-Lenten season, a triple row of carriages filled with masks formed an immense Longchamp in the centre of Paris, the promenaders and idlers did not complain because they were furnished with that spectacle gratis.

Everybody could not afford to go to the OpÉra ball, or even to the Salle BarthÉlemy; and the modest annuitant, as he strolled about the streets with his wife during the carnival days, returned home in high glee when he had rubbed elbows with Harlequins or Punchinellos; and if a Bear said to his wife: "I know you!" the delighted couple could not contain themselves; and madame would say proudly to her concierge: "A Bear said to me: 'I know you!'"

You must see, you pessimists, who want to abolish the carnival, that by abolishing it you would grieve a great many people. I know that that is a matter of indifference to you; but, despite your efforts, so long as the world exists, there will be masks. Some people would tell you that there are masks all the year round; that you need not wait for carnival time to see them. But, as you hear that very often, I will not say it.

The carnival is the season of intrigues and of mad pranks. Again, we might say that there are intrigues all the year round; but that has been said before, and we will not repeat it. We will take the liberty, in passing, of calling your attention to the fact that we say only novel things; that is very considerate on our part, and we are persuaded that we shall receive due credit therefor.

Monsieur Dupont was, as we have said, a man of forty years; that is the age of passions, when one is destined to have any; but thus far the gentleman in question had not manifested the slightest symptom of anything of the sort. He smoked, took snuff, gambled, and drank, but without enthusiasm, and, we might say, without enjoyment. As for the women, you have seen that he slept most of the time beside his wife. Nevertheless, Monsieur Dupont was not insensible to the charms of beauty; what attracted him more than anything else in a woman was figure, shape, carriage; in short, he preferred a well-proportioned body to a pretty face; and unluckily for Madame Dupont, she was rather pretty than well made. Perhaps that was what had made her husband such a heavy sleeper.

As for Dupont himself, he was neither handsome nor ugly, neither short nor tall, neither clever nor stupid; he was one of those men of whom nothing is said. He had rather a good figure, however, with a shapely foot and a small white hand. He was very proud of these advantages, considered himself a little Apollo, and was absolutely determined not to take on flesh; the fear of that catastrophe was mainly responsible for his decision to go to Paris; and since the doctor had recommended that he should go without his wife, it was evident that he wished him to lead the life of a bachelor there. Now, what is the life of a bachelor, if not to be constantly on the look-out for intrigues, amourettes, bonnes fortunes; in a word, to pass one's time running after women—society women when opportunity offers, and grisettes when one can do no better?

Speaking of grisettes, there are some writers who try to make us believe that there are none now; that they have gone out of fashion, like pug dogs; that the mould is broken. With due deference to those gentlemen, we maintain that the grisette still exists and always will exist in Paris. For, if you please, what are all the flowermakers, seamstresses, burnishers, illuminators, laundresses, waistcoatmakers, shirtmakers, trousermakers, etc., etc.?—They are neither coquettes, nor those exceedingly free and easy beauties who are always in evidence in the proscenium boxes of the smaller theatres, and are called, I do not just know why, lorettes; nor are they kept women, for it very often happens that their lovers can give them nothing but love; lastly, they are not virtuous bourgeois women, who never go out except on the arm of a father or brother. They are grisettes, genuine grisettes! Pray let us not demonetize them, they are such pretty coins! Why insist that they shall cease to be current?

I wish that you gentlemen, who will have it that there are none left in Paris, would go now and then, during the summer, to the Closerie des Lilas, the favorite ball of the students who love dancing and love; you will see there grisettes of all categories, you will see them laughing, capering, fooling, dancing a cancan as graceful and much less indecent than the Spanish dances which are allowed at the theatres; you will hear them talk, making fun of one another, envying this one her lover, ridiculing that one's lover; and amid the brief sentences and bursts of laughter that fill the air on all sides, you will catch some piquant, clever remarks, original expressions, which you hear nowhere else, and which make it impossible for you to keep a serious face—unless, that is to say, you belong to that school which insists that no one shall laugh, and which dares to say that "laughter is a grimace"! What a pitiful school, good Lord! Take my advice and never send your children to it! You must surely see that the results are not desirable.

Dupont, arriving in Paris during the carnival, began his bachelor life by betaking himself to the OpÉra ball.

"The doctor ordered me to enjoy myself, and I can't fail of it in the midst of that crowd, largely composed of pretty women who are not absolute Lucretias, who ask nothing better than to make acquaintances, who, in fact, go to the ball for that sole purpose. I will take my choice, I will try to find a woman shaped like a Venus—yes, a Bacchante even, for all the Bacchantes I ever saw in pictures were of perfect shape; I will play the agreeable, the gallant; I have wit enough when I am started; to be sure, I have some difficulty in getting started, but with perseverance and punch I shall succeed; and I won't go to bed at ten o'clock, for I won't go to the ball till midnight."

Dupont carried his plan into execution; he had some trouble to avoid falling asleep in his chair when the clock struck ten. Several times he was on the point of getting into bed instead of putting on his dress coat; but, luckily, just as he was about to yield to his old habit, he glanced at his stomach and remembered that he could no longer button the last button of his waistcoat; whereupon he sprang to his feet and dressed in haste, muttering:

"You poor devil, do you want to turn into a Punchinello? I shan't have a hump behind, to be sure, but one in front is just as laughable and much more inconvenient. I'll go to the ball, cut capers, and have a jolly time! Sapristi! this isn't a joking matter, it's a matter of remaining young!"

Behold, therefore, our friend at the ball, gliding amid the throng that walked back and forth around the dancing enclosure, because from there one can look at the women at close quarters; one can even speak to them, joke with them, and offer them an arm when they are without an escort; all that is permissible at a masquerade ball. Indeed, what is not permissible there?—Dupont saw divers pretty creatures dressed as boatmen, sailors, jockeys, and postilions. As a general rule, ladies who dress in masculine costume wear no masks and are very glad to show their faces. They also disclose their shoulders and breasts; sometimes, indeed, there is too much abandon in their attire; they do not understand that the eye likes to have something to divine, and that a man is especially enamored of what he does not see.

Dupont selected a very attractive little blonde dressed as a Columbine. To become better acquainted, he invited her to polk; but our worthy friend from Brives-la-Gaillarde did not know what a risk he was taking; he fancied that the polka was danced at the OpÉra ball as it was danced in his province; above all, he was unaware that it always ended in a galop—and such a galop! it must be seen to be appreciated. It is a whirlwind; it is as if a sort of insane frenzy had taken possession of all the dancers, under the inspiration of the lively, rapid, deafening music that electrifies you and takes you off your feet; you no longer galop, you fly, you whirl madly about, you push and jostle everyone you meet! Be fearless and do not lose your head, or you will infallibly be thrown down.

That is what happened to Dupont; he was not agile enough to hold his own in that bacchanalian dance; he fell and dragged his partner to the floor with him; she sprang quickly to her feet, and said in an angry tone:

"When you don't know how to galop, my boy, you shouldn't ask a lady to dance."

And the Columbine seized the arm of a Harlequin, and began to dance with him; while poor Dupont, who had not risen quickly enough, was struck by the feet of several dancers, and finally got up covered with bruises.

As he was very lame in the knees, shoulders, and back, he left the ball and went home to bed, saying:

"That's enough amusement for to-night!"

But Dupont would not admit that he was beaten, although he really had been. A few days later, he tried his luck again at a ball; but this time he went to the Casino, which he had been told was the rendezvous of the women most in vogue. In truth, our provincial was agreeably impressed by the fine costumes and by the elegance of those ladies, most of whom were in party dresses instead of masks.

"It is impossible," he said to himself, "that they dance such a dangerous galop here as they do at the OpÉra. However, I will be prudent and not galop; I will confine myself to taking a partner for a contra-dance; that's the wiser way, because the figures are always the same; I know them all, and it isn't possible that I can be thrown down doing the English chain or the pastourelle."

And Dupont, after walking about the hall for some time in search of a particularly shapely partner, invited at last a rather attractive person whose languorous eyes gazed into his with infinite good humor.

They stood up to dance; but Dupont had for vis-À-vis a gaillarde who had been a pupil of the famous Rigolboche, and whose bold and eccentric dancing was so renowned that people fought for places to watch her.

When Dupont executed his avant-deux before that lady, he suddenly received a superb kick full in the face, amid the applause and roars of laughter of the spectators.

Dupont alone did not laugh; his nose was crushed, and he attempted to complain; but the tall gaillarde said to him:

"It's your own fault! You're a donkey, my dear friend; you ought to have known that that was the time when I lift my leg! If you don't know my steps, you shouldn't dance opposite me! Bribri would never have let my foot hit him!"

As Dupont's nose was bleeding and pained him severely, he left the ball and went home to bed, saying to himself:

"I've amused myself enough for to-day."

Several days passed, and, Dupont's nose having healed, he said to himself:

"I'll go to the ball again; I'll stick to it; but this time I won't dance."

Attracted by the length of a poster which almost covered a whole pillar on the boulevards, he went to the ball in the Salle BarthÉlemy. There the crowd was almost as great as at the OpÉra, but the company was infinitely less refined, and the tobacco smoke and the dust raised by the dancing, blended with the odor of the refreshments which were being served, gave to that ball a distinction peculiarly its own.

Dupont discovered a pretty little brunette, whose dress resembled that of a grisette. She was alone; he offered his arm and a glass of punch. The girl hesitated, then replied:

"You are very kind! I am very fond of punch, and I'd like to take a glass; but I'm afraid of Ronfland."

"Who's Ronfland?"

"He's—he's my friend, a cabinetmaker, a good fellow—but he gets drunk too often. I came to the ball with him, and he was to dance with me; but he didn't, and he left me here. That ain't a nice way to treat me!"

"As Monsieur Ronfland left you, it seems to me that you're at liberty to do what you choose, and to accept my arm and a glass of punch; you can't stay alone in this crowd, you need an escort."

"It ain't very good fun to be alone, that's true. I don't understand Ronfland; he left me near the orchestra, and he says: 'Stay here, and I'll come right back.'—That was more than an hour ago, and he hasn't come back."

"He's forgotten you."

"Oh! I'm sure he's gone to get a drink."

"Without you? That isn't polite. Of course, you have the right to do the same."

"Faith! yes, so I have. So much the worse for Ronfland! After all, it's his own fault!"

Dupont put the little brunette's arm through his and took her to the cafÉ; he ordered punch and filled a glass for his new acquaintance, who drank it readily, but kept repeating:

"After this you'll dance with me, won't you, monsieur? For one don't come to a ball to go without dancing."

And Dupont, who was not at all anxious to dance, continued to pour out the punch, as he replied:

"Yes, by and by; we have time enough. There are too many people here now; we should be too warm; it's better to drink punch."

But suddenly a young man, with a cap cocked over one ear, rushed up like a bomb, brought his fist down on the table, upset the punch bowl and glasses, and boxed the little brunette's ears, crying:

"Ah! that's how you behave, JosÉphine! I've caught you at it! I bring you to the ball, and you play tricks on me with other men! I'll bring you to the right-about, you vile street walker!"

Mademoiselle JosÉphine began to weep.

"You're still drunk, Ronfland," she cried. "I don't play tricks on you; you ought not to leave me; you're a drunkard; I don't love you any more!"

But Dupont was not of a temper to allow a woman who was in his company to be maltreated; he rose, picked up the empty bowl, which was rolling about the table, and with it struck Ronfland on the nose.

"Parbleu!" he said; "my nose was smashed the other day, and I'm not sorry to have my revenge."

But the young man in the cap, infuriated by the blow, leaped upon Dupont, who lost his balance, and they rolled together on the floor, still striking each other.

The police appeared and separated them. Ronfland and his companion were turned out of doors, and Dupont was obliged to pay for what was broken. As he had cut himself severely in the face while rolling about on the broken glass, he lost no time in taking a cab and returning to his hotel.

"I've got what I deserve!" he said to himself; "I have gone about it the wrong way. I certainly shall not go to any more balls in search of amusement!"