Beyond, on the grand stair-case, the guests ascended slowly in groups of twos and threes, flecking the marble with splashes of colour, radiant, vivid, like clusters of rose leaves strewn on the steps. The perfume was intoxicating, languorous. Light trills as of laughter and snatches of talk, gay and fleeting, mingled with the rhythm of the violins.
The ball was at its height.
In an arch of the stair-case stood a young officer. He was leaning nonchalantly against the carved balustrade; the scarlet and gold of his uniform shone against a green background of palms, distinguishing his broad shoulders from among the rest. The palms screened him as in a niche.
The officer was swarthy of complexion with a short, black mustache, and his eyes, small and near together, roamed carelessly over the throng. As the groups approached the head of the stair-case, one after the other, he saluted smiling, half heeding, and his eyes roved on still more carelessly; sometimes they crossed.
Whenever they crossed, his eyes would remain fixed, intent, for a moment, on some one advancing to the foot of the stair-case, eagerly watching as the form came nearer and nearer. Then the muscles relaxed. He frowned impatiently, tapping his sword against the carvings.
"Hiss-s-t—Prince Michel!"
The whisper came from behind the leaves of the palms and they swayed slightly, trembling as from a movement, or a breath.
The officer started, turning his black eyes swiftly, fiercely on the green, and then looked away again.
"Ha, Boris!" he muttered, hardly moving his lips, "How you come creeping behind one!—What is it, a message?"
"Hist-st! Speak low."