In the Quarter

Je fais ce que sa fantaisie
Veut m'ordonner,
Et je puis, s'il lui faut ma vie
La lui donner

sang Yvonne, deftly thrusting tierce and quarte with her fan to make Gethryn keep his distance.

``Do you know it is snowing?'' he said presently, peering out of the window as the cab rattled across the Pont Neuf.

``Tant mieux!'' cried the girl; ``I shall make a snowball – a – '' she opened her blue eyes impressively, ``a very, very large one, and – ''

``And?''

``Drop it on the head of Mr Rowden,'' she announced, with cheerful decision.

``I'll warn poor Rowden of your intention,'' he laughed, as the cab rolled smoothly up the Avenue de l'Opera, across the Boulevard des Italiens, and stopped before the glittering pile of the great Opera.

She sprang lightly to the curbstone and stood tapping her little feet against the pavement while Gethryn fumbled about for his fare.

The steps of the Opera and the Plaza were covered with figures in dominoes, blue, red or black, many grotesque and bizarre costumes, and not a few sober claw hammers. The great flare of yellow light which bathed and flooded the shifting, many-colored throng, also lent a strangely weird effect to the now heavily falling snowflakes. Carriages and cabs kept arriving in countless numbers. It was half past two, and nobody who wanted to be considered anybody thought of arriving before that hour. The people poured in a steady stream through the portals. Groups of English and American students in their irreproachable evening attire, groups of French students in someone else's doubtful evening attire, crowds of rustling silken dominoes, herds of crackling muslin dominoes, countless sad-faced Pierrots, fewer sad-faced Capuchins, now and then a slim Mephistopheles, now and then a fat, stolid Turk, 'Arry, Tom, and Billy, redolent of plum pudding and Seven Dials, Gontran, Gaston and Achille, savoring of brasseries and the Sorbonne. And then, from the carriages and fiacres: Mademoiselle Patchouli and good old Monsieur Bonvin, Mademoiselle Nitouche and bad young Monsieur de Sacrebleu, Mademoiselle Moineau and Don Cæsar Imberbe; and the pink silk domino of ``La Pataude'' – mais n'importe!

Allons, Messieurs, Mesdames, to the cloak room – to the foyer! To the escalier! or you, Madame la Comtesse, to your box, and smooth out your crumpled domino; as for ``La Pataude,'' she is going to dance tonight.

Gethryn, with Yvonne clinging tightly to his arm, entered the great vestibule and passed through the railed lanes to the broad inclined aisle which led to the floor.

``Do you want to take a peep before we go to our box?'' he asked, leading her to the doorway.

Yvonne's little heart beat faster as she leaned over and glanced at the dazzling spectacle.

``Come, hurry – let us go to the box!'' she whispered, dragging Gethryn after her up the stairway.

He followed, laughing at her excitement, and in a few minutes they found the door of their lodge and slipped in.

Gethryn lighted a cigarette and began to unstrap his field glasses.

``Take these, Yvonne,'' he said, handing them to her while he adjusted her own tiny gold ones.

Yvonne's cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled under the little mask, as she leaned over the velvet railing and gazed at the bewildering spectacle below. Great puffs of hot, perfumed air bore the crash of two orchestras to their ears, mixed with the distant clatter and whirl of the dancers, and the shouts and cries of the maskers.

At the end of the floor, screened by banks of palms, sat the musicians, and round about, rising tier upon tier, the glittering boxes were filled with the elite of the demimonde, who ogled and gossiped and sighed, entirely content with the material and social barriers which separate those who dance for ten francs from those who look on for a hundred.

But there were others there who should not by any means be confounded with their sisters of the ``half-world.''

The Faubourg St Germain, the Champs Elysées, and the Parc Monceau were possibly represented among those muffled and disguised beauties, who began the evening with their fans so handy in case of need. Ah, well – now they lay their fans down quite out of reach in case of emergency, and who shall say if disappointment lurks under these dainty dominoes, that there is so little to bring a blush to modest cheeks – alas! few emergencies.

And you over there – you of the ``American Colony,'' who are tossed like shuttlecocks in the social whirl, you, in your well-appointed masks and silks, it is all very new and exciting – yes, but why should you come? American women, brought up to think clean thoughts and see with innocent eyes, to exact a respectful homage from men and enjoy a personal dignity and independence unknown to women anywhere else – why do you want to come here? Do you not know that the foundations of that liberty which makes you envied in the old world are laid in the respect and confidence of men? Undermine that, become wise and cynical, learn the meaning of doubtful words and gestures whose significance you never need have suspected, meet men on the same ground where they may any day meet fast women of the continent, and fix at that moment on your free limbs the same chains which corrupt society has forged for the women of Europe.

Yvonne leaned back in her box with a little gasp.

``But I can't make out anyone at all,'' she said; ``it's all a great, sparkling sea of color.''

``Try the field glasses,'' replied Gethryn, giving them to her again, at the same time opening her big plumy fan and waving it to and fro beside the flushed cheek.

Presently she cried out, ``Oh, look! There is Mr Elliott and Mr Rowden, and I think Mr Clifford – but I hope not.''

He leaned forward and swept the floor with the field glass.

``It's Clifford, sure enough,'' he muttered; ``what on earth induces him to dance in that set?''

It was Clifford.

At that moment he was addressing Elliott in pleading, though hazy, phrases.

``Come 'long, Elliott, don't be so – so uncomf't'ble 'n' p'tic'lar! W't's use of be'ng shnobbish?'' he urged, clinging hilariously to his partner, a pigeon-toed ballet girl. But Elliott only laughed and said:

``No; waltzes are all I care for. No quadrille for me – ''

The crash of the orchestra drowned his voice, and Clifford, turning and bowing gravely to his partner, and then to his vis-à-vis, began to perform such antics and cut such pigeonwings that his pigeon-toed partner glared at him through the slits of her mask in envious astonishment. The door was dotted with numerous circles of maskers, ten or fifteen deep, all watching and applauding the capers of the hilarious couples in the middle.

But Clifford's set soon attracted a large and enthusiastic audience, who were connoisseurs enough to distinguish a voluntary dancer from a hired one; and when the last thundering chords of Offenbach's ``March into Hell'' scattered the throng into a delirious waltz, Clifford reeled heavily into the side scenes and sat down, rather unexpectedly, in the lap of Mademoiselle Nitouche, who had crept in there with the Baron Silberstein for a nice, quiet view of a genuine cancan.

Mademoiselle did not think it funny, but the Baron did, and when she boxed Clifford's ears he thought it funnier still.

Rowden and Elliot, who were laboriously waltzing with a twin pair of flat-footed Watteau Shepherdesses, immediately ran to his assistance; and later, with a plentiful application of cold water and still colder air, restored Mr Clifford to his usual spirits.

``You're not a beauty, you know,'' said Rowden, looking at Clifford's hair, which was soaked into little points and curls; ``you're certainly no beauty, but I think you're all right now – don't you, Elliott? ''

``Certainly,'' laughed the triumvir, producing a little silver pocket-comb and presenting it to the woebegone Clifford, who immediately brought out a hand glass and proceeded to construct a ``bang'' of wonderful seductiveness.

In ten minutes they sallied forth from the dressing room and wended their way through the throngs of masks to the center of the floor. They passed Thaxton and Rhodes, who, each with a pretty nun upon his arm, were trying to persuade Bulfinch into taking the third nun, who might have been the Mother Superior or possibly a resuscitated 14th century abbess.

``No,'' he was saying, while he blinked painfully at the ci-devant abbess, ``I can't go that; upon my word, don't ask me, fellows – I – I can't.''

``Oh, come,'' urged Rhodes, ``what's the odds?''

``You can take her and I'll take yours,'' began the wily little man, but neither Rhodes nor Thaxton waited to argue longer.

``No catacombs for me,'' growled Bulfinch, eyeing the retreating nuns, but catching sight of the triumvirate, his face regained its bird-like felicity of expression.

``Glad to see you – indeed I am! That Colossus is too disinterested in securing partners for his friends; he is, I assure you. If you're looking for a Louis Quatorze partner, warranted genuine, go to Rhodes.''

``Rex ought to be here by this time,'' said Rowden; ``look in the boxes on that side and Clifford and I will do the same on this.''

``No need,'' cried Elliott, ``I see him with a white domino there in the second tier. Look! he's waving his hand to us and so is the domino.''

``Come along,'' said Clifford, pushing his way toward the foyer, ``I'll find them in a moment. Let me see,'' – a few minutes later, pausing outside a row of white and gilt doors – ``let me see, seventh box, second tier – here we are,'' he added, rapping loudly.

Yvonne ran and opened the door.