CHAPTER I
[THE OPERA-BALL]
In 1837 the Opera-ball in Paris was not as yet entirely invaded by that mob of wild and crazed dancers, chicards[1] and chicandards (as they style themselves), who, in the present day, have almost entirely driven from these assemblies the old traditions for mystification, and that tone of good society which did not detract from the piquancy of adventure.
Then, as now, the fashionables of the day congregated around a large chest, placed in the corridor of the first circle of boxes, between the two doors of the Opera "crush-room."
The privileged made a seat of this chest, and frequently shared it with certain sprightly dominoes, who were not always of the haut ton, but who knew it well enough by hearsay to be able to chatter scandal as fluently as the most scandalous.
At the last ball in the month of January 1837, about two o'clock in the morning, a tolerably large party of men were collected round a female in a domino, seated on the chest to which we have alluded.
Loud bursts of laughter hailed the sallies of this lady. She was not deficient in wit, but certain vulgar expressions, and the manner of tutoiement which she employed, proved that she did not appertain to the leading circles; although she appeared perfectly well informed as to all that passed in the highest and most exclusive society.
They were still laughing at one of the last smart comments of this domino, when, looking towards a young man who was passing through the corridor with great haste to enter the "crush-room," this female said,—
"Good evening, Fierval! whither so fast? you appear in great haste. Are you seeking the lovely Princess de Hansfeld, to whom you pay such constant attention? You will lose your time, I can assure you. She is not the woman to come to an Opera-ball—her virtue is of the old-fashioned sort; and you will all but singe your wings in the flame, like delicate butterflies."
M. de Fierval paused, and replied, with a smile,—