"Is it not good?" she asked.
"No," I replied.
"Perhaps your head aches?"
"No."
"Or you are tired?"
"No."
"Ah! then it is the ennui of love?"
With these words she became serious, for in spite of herself, in speaking of love, her Italian heart beat the faster.
A scene of folly ensued. Heads were becoming heated, cheeks were assuming that purple hue with which wine colors the face as though to prevent shame from appearing there; a confused murmur like to that of a rising sea could be heard all over the room, here and there eyes would become inflamed, then fixed and empty; I know not what wind stirred above this drunkenness. A woman rose, as in a tranquil sea the first wave that feels the tempest's breath, and rises to announce it; she makes a sign with her hand to command silence, empties her glass at a gulp, and with the same movement undoes her hair, which falls in shining tresses over her shoulders; she opens her mouth as though to start a drinking song; her eyes were half closed. She breathed with an effort; twice a harsh sound came from her throat; a mortal pallor overspread her features and she dropped into her chair.
Then came an uproar which lasted an hour. It was impossible to distinguish anything, either laughter, songs or cries.