At all events,
he bought a white domino.
The hour of the appointment came at last. With his face in a mask
trimmed with long, thick lace, looking like a pierrot in his white wrap,
the viscount thought himself very ridiculous. Men of the world
do not go to the Opera ball in fancy-dress! It was absurd.
One thought, however, consoled the viscount: he would certainly
never be recognized!
This ball was an exceptional affair, given some time before Shrovetide,
in honor of the anniversary of the birth of a famous draftsman;
and it was expected to be much gayer, noisier, more Bohemian than
the ordinary masked ball. Numbers of artists had arranged to go,
accompanied by a whole cohort of models and pupils, who, by midnight,
began to create a tremendous din. Raoul climbed the grand staircase
at five minutes to twelve, did not linger to look at the motley
dresses displayed all the way up the marble steps, one of the richest
settings in the world, allowed no facetious mask to draw him into
a war of wits, replied to no jests and shook off the bold familiarity
of a number of couples who had already become a trifle too gay.
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