At the Masked Ball

Raoul's fingers clutched at his flesh, above his jealous heart. In his
inexperience, he now asked himself with terror what game the girl was
playing? Up to what point could an opera-singer make a fool of a
good-natured young man, quite new to love? O misery! ...

Thus did Raoul's thoughts fly from one extreme to the other. He no
longer knew whether to pity Christine or to curse her; and he pitied
and cursed her turn and turn about. At all events, he bought a white
domino.

The hour of the appointment came at last. With his face in a mask
trimmed with long, thick lace, looking like a pierrot in his white
wrap, the viscount thought himself very ridiculous. Men of the world
do not go to the Opera ball in fancy-dress! It was absurd. One
thought, however, consoled the viscount: he would certainly never be
recognized!

This ball was an exceptional affair, given some time before Shrovetide,
in honor of the anniversary of the birth of a famous draftsman; and it
was expected to be much gayer, noisier, more Bohemian than the ordinary
masked ball. Numbers of artists had arranged to go, accompanied by a
whole cohort of models and pupils, who, by midnight, began to create a
tremendous din. Raoul climbed the grand staircase at five minutes to
twelve, did not linger to look at the motley dresses displayed all the
way up the marble steps, one of the richest settings in the world,
allowed no facetious mask to draw him into a war of wits, replied to no
jests and shook off the bold familiarity of a number of couples who had
already become a trifle too gay. Crossing the big crush-room and
escaping from a mad whirl of dancers in which he was caught for a
moment, he at last entered the room mentioned in Christine's letter.
He found it crammed; for this small space was the point where all those
who were going to supper in the Rotunda crossed those who were
returning from taking a glass of champagne. The fun, here, waxed fast
and furious.