The soldier did not reply; his heart had given a sudden throb at the clerk’s last words. Automatically he placed his ticket in his pocket, and randomly answered the employee’s further inquiries for instructions. He was not thinking of the Dauphin or her new engines, the forerunner of the modern quadruple-expansion arrangement, but through his brain rang the assurance: “Everybody will be there.” And all the way up the street, it repeated itself again and again.
CHAPTER IX
“COMUS’ MISTICK WITCHERIES”
That elusive, nocturnal company, “The Mistick Krewe of Comus,” had appeared––“Comus, deep skilled in all his mother’s witcheries”––and the dwellers in Phantasmagoria were joyfully numerous. More plentiful than at a modern spectacular performance, reveled gods, demons and fairies, while the children resembled a flight of masquerading butterflies. The ball at the theater, the Roman Veglioni, succeeded elaborate tableaux, the “Tartarus,” of the ancients, and “Paradise Lost,” of Milton, in which the “Krewe” impersonated Pluto and Proserpine, the fates, harpies and other characters of the representation. In gallery, dress-circle and parquet, the theater was crowded, the spectacle, one of dazzling toilets, many of them from the ateliers of the Parisian modistes; a wonderful evolution of Proserpine’s toga and the mortal robes of the immortal Fates. Picture followed picture: The expulsion from Paradise; the conference of the Gorgons, and the court of pandemonium, where gluttony, drunkenness, avarice and 477 vanity were skilfully set forth in uncompromising colors.
Availing themselves of the open-house of the unknown “Krewe,” a composite host that vanished on the stroke of twelve, many of “Old Rough and Ready’s” retinue mingled with the gathering, their uniforms, well-worn, even shabby, unlike the spick and span regimentals from the costumier. With bronzed faces and the indubitable air of campaigns endured, they were the objects of lively interest to the fair maskers, nor were themselves indifferent to the complaisance of their entertainers. Hands, burned by the sun, looked blacker that night, against the white gowns of waists they clasped; bearded faces more grim visaged in contrast with delicate complexions; embroidery and brocade whirled around with faded uniforms; and dancing aigrettes waved above frayed epaulets and shoulder straps.
“Loog at ’im!” murmured a fille à la cassette, regarding one of these officers who, however, held aloof from the festivities; a well-built young man, but thin and worn, as though he, like his uniform, had seen service. “If he would only carry my trunk!” she laughed, relapsing into French and alluding to the small chest she bore under her arm.
“Or my little white lamb!” gaily added her companion, a shepherdess.
And they tripped by with sidelong looks and obvious challenge which the quarry of these sprightly huntresses of men either chose to disregard or was 478 unconscious of, as he deliberately surveyed his surroundings with more curiosity than pleasure and absently listened to a mountebank from “The Belle’s Strategem.”