“Who?”
“You know—up there”; and he pointed to the ceiling.
“Oh!” said the butler, becoming thoughtful; “where are they?”
“They have just gone upstairs; they are there now,” answered the waiter, shaking his head with an air of alarm; “yes, they are there!”
“What does master say?”
“He is very vexed, because—” and the waiter glanced round at the guests. “He does not know what to do; he has sent me to you.”
“What the devil have I to do with it?” said the other; wiping his forehead. “It was to be expected, and cannot be helped.”
“I will not remain here till they begin.”
“You may as well go, for your long face already attracts attention. Tell master we must wait for the upshot.”
The above incident was scarcely perceived in the midst of the growing tumult of the joyous feast. But, among the guests, one alone laughed not, drank not. This was Jacques. With fixed and lurid eye, he gazed upon vacancy. A stranger to what was passing around him, the unhappy man thought of the Bacchanal Queen, who had been so gay and brilliant in the midst of similar saturnalia. The remembrance of that one being, whom he still loved with an extravagant love, was the only thought that from time to time roused him from his besotted state.