A female pierrot dances past me with Don Juan, and, with a laugh, throws a handful of confetti in my face. I retaliate—a few phrases are exchanged—I look after her for a moment—and then turn to the entrance of the corridor, to get out into the colonnade.
I am rooted to the ground!
Standing aside in a corner, on the very same spot as before, is my nun, staring at me with the same unfathomable eyes as a week ago!
Where had she come from?
Out of the ground? Or had she slipped in through the door during my banter with the pierrot?
She had come through the door, of course.
I am utterly amazed. The same costume. The same joke. How clumsy of the prince to repeat himself, I am inclined to ignore the impertinent young gentleman, and pass him proudly by—yet—strange—again I am attracted irresistibly, as by a supernatural power, held by those black orbs. I am quite certain of my wits this time: the dress is really the forbidden costume of a nun, and, so far as I can judge, exact in every particular. On her breast hangs a large cross, which is especially conspicuous. It is of dull gold, with emeralds and pearls inlaid, of peculiar shape, and certainly antique. The pious nun seems to have regaled herself with excessive haste at some sideboard, since the white collar and the front of the gray bodice show oblong dark stains, as though some beverage had been spilt.
“Well, fair mask,” finally remark in a mocking tone, although my heart is beating furiously, “you have been waiting for me here, I presume?”
She nods slowly and solemnly.
“Do you imagine, by chance, that I wish to dance another hurricane with you?”