It was, indeed. They came back, their cheeks flushed, their eyes bright with wine. Some of them too tipsy to stand, rolled upon the rout seats, and so fell fast asleep.
I observed that the great ladies and the gentlemen with them did not return after supper: their absence removed some restraint: and the gentlemen who had arrived without a masquerade dress did not come back after supper. The company was thinner, but it was much louder: there was no longer any pretence of keeping up a character: the Quack left off bawling his wares: the showman deserted his show: the fortune-tellers left their tents: the Hermit left his cell: the dancing and tumbling girls joined in the general throng: there were many sets formed but little regular dancing: all were broken up by rushes of young men more than half drunk: they caught the girls and kissed them—nothing loth, though they shrieked: it was a proof that the gentlewomen had all gone, that no one resented this rudeness—either a partner or the girl herself: the scene became an orgy: all together were romping, touzling, laughing, shrieking, and quarrelling.
Still the music kept up: still we played with unflinching arm and all the spirit which can be put into them, the most stirring dance tunes. At last they left off trying to dance: some of the women lay back on the rout seats partly with liquor overcome and partly with fatigue: men were sprawling unable to get up: bottles of wine were brought up from the supper-room and handed round. The men grew every minute noisier: the women shrieked louder and more shrilly—perhaps with cause. And every minute some slipped away and the crowd grew thinner, till there were left little more than a heap of drunken men and weary women.
At last word came up that it was five o'clock, the time for closing.
The conductor laid down his violin: the night's work was over: we would go.
The people below clamoured for more music, but in vain. Then they, too, began to stream out noisily.
As I passed the supper-room I saw that half a dozen young fellows had got in and were noisily clamouring for champagne. The waiters who were clearing the supper took no notice. Then one of them with a bludgeon set to work and began to smash plates, glasses, dishes, bottles, windows, in a kind of a frenzy of madness or mischief. Half a dozen stout fellows rushed at him: carried him out of the supper-room and so into the Square outside. It was a fitting end for the Masquerade.
While I was looking on, I was touched on the arm by a mask. I knew her by her white satin dress for Madame.
I had seen her from time to time flitting about the room, sometimes with a partner, sometimes alone. She was conversing one moment with a gentleman whose star betokened his rank, and the next with one of her paid actors or actresses, directing the sports. I had seen her dancing two minuets in succession each with a grace and dignity which no other woman in the room could equal.
'A noisy end, Will, is it not? We always finish this way. The young fellow who smashed the glass is Lord St. Osyth. To-morrow morning he will have to pay the bill. 'Tis a good-natured fool. See: they are carrying out the last of the drunken hogs. Faugh! How drunk they are!'