The foyer was, at that late hour of the night, a scene of the most motley, most picturesque confusion. Assyrian queens were walking arm in arm with John Bulls, Marguerites were coquetting unblushingly with gallants of some two centuries later, while Hamlets and Othellos were indulging in the favourite Viennese pastime of hoisting their present partners on to the tallest pillars they could find, with a view to starving them out up there, into a jump some ten or twelve feet below, when they would perforce land into the outstretched arms of their delighted swains.
And very pretty these tall pillars looked, thus decorated with living, laughing, chatting figures of vivandières, Pierrettes, aye—and of sober Ophelias and languishing Isoldes. But the black domino heeded them not; darting hither and thither, taking no notice of cheeky sallies and rough bousculades, he pushed his way through the crowd towards one spot, close to the entrance, where a special little jewelled cap was fast disappearing through the widely open portals, that led out into the gaily lighted place beyond.
The odalisque had evidently either repented of her audacious adventure, or was possessed of an exceptionally bold spirit, for without a moment’s hesitation she ran down the stone steps, taking no further heed of the jesting crowd she was forced to pass through, or of the two or three idle masks who accosted her, and also started in pursuit.
Having reached the bottom of the steps she seemed to hesitate a moment, only a second perhaps—was it intentionally?—but that second gave Nicholas Alexandrovitch the chance he had for some time striven for; he overtook her, just as she laid her hand on the door of a fiaker which had drawn up, and lifting her off the ground as if she were a feather, he placed her inside, and sat down in front of her, hot and panting, but victorious, while the coachman, without apparently waiting for any directions, drove off rapidly through the ever noisier and gayer crowd.
CHAPTER II.
All this had excited little or no attention among the bystanders. How should it? An opera ball teems with such episodes. Two young people, one in pursuit of the other—a signal—a handy fiaker, et voilá! Who cares? Everyone is busy with his own affairs, his own little bits of adventure and intrigue.
Surely that grey domino over there, standing under one of the fine electric light chandeliers, could have no interest in the unknown odalisque and her ardent swain, for he made not the slightest attempt at pursuit; yet his eyes followed the fast disappearing fiaker, as long as it was recognisable amidst the crowd of vehicles and mummers. A young man he was; evidently not anxious to remain incognito, for he had thrown back the hood of his domino, and held the mask in his hand.
Yet though he thus, as it were, courted recognition, he visibly started as a soft musical voice, with the faintest vestige of foreign intonation, addressed him merrily.
“Why so moody, M. Volenski? Have Strauss’ waltzes tired out your spirits, or has your donna eloped with a hated rival?”
The young man had pulled himself together, and forced his eyes and thoughts to wander away from the fiaker, which now appeared as a mere speck, to the graceful figure in front of him, who owned that musical voice and had called him by his name.