You are speedily bewildered by the noise made by the multitude that surrounds you; the heat becomes stifling; add to this the odor of the bouquets and of the perfumery used by the ladies, and lastly the strains of the enormous orchestra playing galops, waltzes, polkas, mazurkas, with a swing, a precision, a vigor which makes your legs twitch; and do not be surprised if you begin to feel like a different man, if your brain whirls, if your heart beats more rapidly, if you suddenly become inclined to play pranks, to enjoy yourself—no matter how.
But you do not intend to have come to the Opéra ball for nothing. You aspire to an intrigue, a conquest, an unexpected meeting. You seek pleasure, no matter under what form it presents itself, and you often pass several hours in the quest, or rather, in quest of the unknown.
Ah! it is so provoking when a domino with a graceful figure, a tiny hand and a well-arched foot takes your arm, saying:
"I know you!"
I know you! those three words, uttered by an unfamiliar voice, but by a woman who takes your arm, clings to it familiarly, leans toward you and looks into your eyes in a very alluring way—those three words disturb you, excite you, toss you at once into the field of conjecture. No matter how many times you may hear them during the night, they always produce their effect, and especially, as I said just now, if the masker who says them to you has a pretty figure, a pretty hand, pretty eyes—all of which make one desire or hope for a charming face.
First of all, you try to identify the person who speaks to you; you examine her eyes, the lower part of her chin, which the mask imperfectly conceals; you pass in review the feet, the arms, the figure, the hair. You listen attentively to the tone of the voice, which is never perfectly disguised to a very sharp ear.
But when all these have failed to give you any information; when you abandon the idea of recognizing your companion, then you proceed to imagine a woman to match your ideal. Behind the mask that covers her face, you place lovely, intellectual features of the sort that you most affect; your imagination takes fire—you have met the woman of your dreams, you are beginning to fall in love; a few seconds more, and you will have a full-fledged passion on your hands. But no; it will not go so far as that. You will restrain yourself, for there is always a reverse side to the medallion; and that reverse side the sirens themselves are blundering enough to show to you. You have not had your lady on your arm ten minutes, when she says to you:
"Aren't you going to ask me to take something?"
Ah! what a tumble your imagination takes at that! how suddenly your dreams of a woman of fashion, distinguished, mysterious, passionate, are transformed into humble flower-makers, corset-makers, waistcoat-makers, and sometimes something even humbler!
"Aren't you going to ask me to take something?"—can it be that a woman of breeding, a woman of the beau monde, or even of the beau demi-monde, would ask that question?