“It is my regret, mam’selle, not to have the happiness of knowing who you are, and it is not possible I ever may, unless you will have the goodness to remove your mask.”
“Ah! monsieur, what you request is impossible.”
“Impossible! and why may I ask?”
“Because, were you to see my face, I should not have you for my partner in the next dance; and to say the truth, I should regret that, since you waltz so admirably.”
“Oh! refusal and flattery in the same breath! No, mam’selle, I am sure your face will never be the means of your losing a partner. Come! let me beg of you to remove that envious counterfeit. Let us converse freely face to face. I am not masked, as you see.”
“In truth, sir, you have no reason to hide your face, which is more than I can say for many other men in this room.”
“Quick-witted milliner,” thought I. “Bravo, Ranelagh! Vive la Mabille!”
“Thanks, amiable masker!” I replied. “But you are too generous: you flatter me—”
“It is worth while,” rejoined she, interrupting me; “it improves your cheek: blushes become you, ha, ha, ha!”
“The deuce!” I ejaculated, half aloud, “this dame du Boulevard is laughing at me!”