He turned hastily round. His eyes met the well-known countenance of Marie Louise.
‘What! are you in this infernal place, too?’ said he. ‘What has brought you here?’
‘Will your Majesty permit me to ask the same question of yourself?’ said the Empress, smiling.
He made no reply; astonishment prevented him. No curtain now intervened between him and the light. It had been removed as if by magic, and a splendid chandelier appeared suspended over his head. Throngs of ladies, richly dressed, but without death’s-head masks, stood round, and a due proportion of gay cavaliers was mingled with them. Music was still sounding, but it was seen to proceed from a band of mortal musicians stationed in an orchestra near at hand. The air was yet redolent of incense, but it was incense unblended with stench.
‘Mon Dieu!’ cried the Emperor, ‘how is all this come about? Where in the world is Piche?’
‘Piche?’ replied the Empress. ‘What does your Majesty mean? Had you not better leave the apartment and retire to rest?’
‘Leave the apartment? Why, where am I?’
‘In my private drawing-room, surrounded by a few particular persons of the Court whom I had invited this evening to a ball. You entered a few minutes since in your nightdress with your eyes fixed and wide open. I suppose from the astonishment you now testify that you were walking in your sleep.’
The Emperor immediately fell into a fit of catalepsy, in which he continued during the whole of that night and the greater part of next day.
Charlotte Brontë.