Philippe d'Orleans still presided over the revelries. Dominoes here, dominoes there; gold spangles, silver spangles, rose and white, blue and amber, violet and grey, scarlet and black, mock jewels flashing like suns and glancing like stars, "debardeurs" and "grands bebes," Pierrots and Scaramouches, white shoulders and black masks, fluttering rosettes and dainty signal-roses, were all pell-mell in glittering tumult and contagious riot; and Vane in a domino of imperial blue, with the silver ivy spray fastened on his shoulder, made his way through the crowd, not dancing, not heeding much the invitations, mockeries, and whispers of a score of charming masks, but looking incessantly upward at the boxes.
He did not see what he looked for; but he did see every now and then, till they had numbered more than a dozen, on an Ottoman, on a Knight of Malta, on a Pharaoh, on a Poissarde, on a black domino, on a scarlet, on a purple, on a violet, the little spray of ivy like his own, that had come out of Phaulcon's bonbon-box.
"Che, che, ch-e-e!" murmured Victor, with the southern expletive. "Miladi Idalia will have a large gathering. Is she as beautiful as they say?—one would think so, to judge by her power."
