As soon as Iván Volenski lost sight completely of Madame Demidoff’s carriage, he, with a sigh of relief, retraced his steps up the wide stairs of the opera house, and joined a couple of dominoes, who, dressed like himself in uniform grey, stood isolated among the groups of masks that encumbered the entrance to the foyer. Together all three began sauntering in the direction of the Kolowrátring.
They walked on in silence for some time, smoking cigarettes and pushing their way through the crowd as best they could.
On the Ringstrasse the scene was as gay as ever; laughing groups of masks in bands of a score or so occupying the whole width of the street made progress somewhat difficult. But the three grey dominoes appeared in no very great hurry; they exchanged jests where repartee was expected of them, and mixed with the crowd where it was impossible to avoid it.
The sumptuous houses and gorgeously decorated shops on either side were illuminated with many-coloured lights, changing this midnight hour into light as broad as day. On the balconies, gaily festooned with flowers, groups of onlookers gazed on the animated scene below, whilst every now and then, from some opened windows, dreamy waltzes and weird csárdás mingled with the noisy street cries and laughter, telling of aristocratic balls and parties given within, where King Carnival was courted with equal mirth if somewhat less exuberance and noise. Sometimes the groups of mummers would stop beneath some of these windows and watch the bejewelled figures flitting to and fro, and listen to the soft cadences of the gipsy music—the one thing Hungarian, the Viennese cannot bring themselves to despise.
But the three dominoes did not pause long, amidst this gay and bustling scene, nor did the brilliantly lighted Ring appear to have any attraction for them, for presently they turned into a side street, uninviting and dark though it seemed; and being free to walk more rapidly, soon left the sounds of merry laughter and revelry far behind them.
Still they walked on in silence, not heeding now the few muffled masks that passed them with a laugh and jest, on their way towards the gayer part of the city.
With these few exceptions the streets they now crossed were completely deserted; no illuminations from the windows proclaimed the reign of King Carnival, no sound of dreamy waltz music lent a touch of merriment to the dismal, stone-paved courtyards that yawned drearily on either side.
Into one of these the three dominoes presently turned, and, without waiting to reply to the concierges’ challenge as to whom they were seeking at so late an hour, they found their way to the back stone staircase, which was but dimly lighted by a hanging lamp, that flickered in the draught, and threw weird shadows on the steps. Having reached the second flight, one of the dominoes gave a peculiar rhythmical knock on one of the doors facing him, which after a few moments was thrown open, while an anxious voice asked—
“Is that you, Baloukine?”
“Yes,” replied the domino, “with Iván and Serge; let us in.”