“The only clothes I have with me are on my back,” said Maurice.
“We shall arrange that. Your guard-hussar uniform has been reserved for you, at the suggestion of the Colonel.”
And Maurice grew more and more disturbed.
“Were they courteous to you on the road?”
“Yes. But—”
“Patience! Here we are at the rear gates.”
Maurice found it impossible to draw back; three troopers blocked the rear, the baron and another rode at his sides, and four more were in advance. The rear gates swung open, and the little troop passed into the chateau confines. Maurice snatched a glimpse of the front lawns and terraces. The trees and walls were hung with Chinese lanterns; gay uniforms and shimmering gowns flitted across his vision. Somewhere within the chateau an orchestra was playing the overture from “Linda di Chamounix.” Indeed, with all these brave officers, old men in black bedecked with ribbons, handsome women in a brilliant sparkle of jewels, it had the semblance of a gay court. It was altogether a different scene from that which was called the court of Bleiberg. There was no restraint here; all was laughter, music, dancing, and wines. The women were young, the men were young; old age stood at one side and looked on. And the charming Voiture-verse of a countess, Maurice was determined to seek her first of all. He vaguely wondered how Fitzgerald would carry himself throughout the ordeal.
The troopers dismounted in the courtyard.
“I'm a trifle too stiff to dance,” Maurice innocently acknowledged.
The baron laughed. “You will have to take luck with me in the stable-barrack; the chateau is filled. The armory has been turned into a ballroom, and the guard out of it.”