She really does not understand how five minutes ago she could have wished the poor attaché at the North Pole. She now thinks him extremely amusing and amiable. She feels so well, too,--so very well. Is it possible that there may be no evil omen for her in the loss of her bracelet? Nevertheless, try as she may to hope that it may be averted, a shiver of anxiety thrills her at the recollection of her lost amulet.
"If the ball were only over!" she thinks.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
[FOUND AT LAST.]
The hour of rest before the cotillon has come; the dancing-room is almost empty. Only a few gentlemen are selecting the places which they wish reserved for themselves and their partners, and a couple of lackeys are clearing away from this battlefield of pleasure the trophies left behind, of late engagements, shreds of tulle and tarlatan, artificial and natural flowers, here and there a torn glove, etc. Edgar tells himself that his hour has come, the hour when he may indemnify himself for ennui hitherto so heroically endured. Meanwhile, he goes to the buffet to refresh himself with a glass of iced champagne, and in hopes of finding Stella.
The supper-room is in the story below the ballroom. The different stories are connected by an extremely picturesque staircase, decorated with gorgeous exotics and ending in a vestibule, or rather an entrance-hall, hung round with antique Flemish draperies.
The buffet is magnificent, and the guests who are laying siege to it, especially the more distinguished among them, are conducting themselves after a very ill bred fashion. Edgar perceives that several of them have taken rather too much of Mr. Fane's fine Cliquot.
He looks around in vain for Stella. In one corner he observes the Oblonsky, with bright eyes and sweet smiles, surrounded by a throng of languishing adorers; farther on, Stasy, in pale blue, with rose-buds and diamond pins in her hair, in a state of bliss because an American diplomatist is holding her gloves and a Russian prince her fan; he sees Thérèse taking some bonbons for the children. Stella is nowhere visible. He thinks the champagne poor, doing it great injustice, and, irritated, goes to the smoking-room to enjoy a cigar. The first man whom he sees in the large room is Monsieur de Hauterive. His face is very red, and he is relating something which must be very amusing, for he laughs loudly while he talks. The men standing around him do not seem to enjoy his narrative as much as he does himself. A few offensive words reach Edgar's ears:
"La Cruche cassée--Stella Meineck--an Austrian--these Viennese girls--mistress of Prince Capito!--I have it all from the Princess Oblonsky!"
"Would you have the kindness to repeat to me what you have just been telling these gentlemen?" Rohritz says, approaching the group and with difficulty suppressing manifestation of his anger.