Her smiling assent gave Wilfrid a momentary pang of jealousy, a feeling strange and illogical; for, seeing that he had his own lady to meet, what did Pauline’s doings matter to him?
“I am as you are,” said she, touching the scarf upon his left arm. “That is not worn without a purpose?”
Offering his arm Wilfrid escorted her to the carriage, and they drove off to the masquerade.
On the northern side of that river-arm known as the Great Nevka, and fronting the Aptekarski Island, there now stands a long line of Government buildings, whose site in the opening years of the nineteenth century was occupied by the Sumaroff Palace and its beautiful gardens, gardens ample enough to furnish a camping ground for all the Czar’s armies.
On this particular night, a warm lovely night in July, the halls and gardens of the palace were gay with a throng of picturesquely-clad masqueraders, drawn from the noblest blood in the land.
Some good people had affected to be scandalised at the holding of such a fête, with Paul but four months dead. Their criticisms vanished, however, when it became known that Prince Sumaroff had not only obtained Alexander’s sanction for the fête, but a promise also that the Imperial family itself would be present.
“There is a time to mourn and a time to dance,” had been the Emperor’s remark—so it was said—and the time for mourning might be considered as fairly past.
On arriving at the palace Wilfrid and Pauline, both closely masked, entered the reception room, where their cards were scrutinised by liveried officials, after which the two were free to go whither they would. Their steps were immediately directed to the famous ballroom, known as the Hall of Mirrors, the glory of the Sumaroff Palace. Crystal columns sustained the roof of this hall, a hall that seemed far more spacious than its actual size, due to the fact that its walls consisted of mirrors, whose multiplying reflections created the illusion of endless vistas of twinkling lights and swaying dancers. Rare flowers glowing from porphyry vases perfumed the air with their fragrance. Here and there were fountains that diffused a refreshing coolness around. The tall windows, ranged along a colonnaded wall, were left open to the night, revealing the moonlit gardens, fair with marble terraces and statuary, gleaming white amid the dark foliage.
Wilfrid, familiar as he was with the various capitals of Europe, had seen nothing to rival the splendour of this ballroom, which, filled as it was with a crowd of masqueraders, all dressed in fanciful costumes, made a picture full of colour, brilliance, and movement.
The gigantic bronze chandelier, hanging from the middle of the ceiling was a superb work of art, radiant as a sun, a mass of flowers and foliage, and—what? Wilfrid turned his ear to listen more attentively: yes, from it came the orchestral music that regulated the steps of the dancers. The chandelier was large enough both to hold and to hide the musicians!