On an elevated platform at
one side, as high as the dancers' heads, sits the orchestra "composed
of artists of talent," thirteen in number; and it is but justice to
say that they make excellent music--far better than that we commonly
hear at home in theatres and at dancing-assemblies. Blouses are
abundant on the floor, in spite of the fact that the ball is
advertised to be "dress, mask, disguise." Near us is a dusty blousard
in huge wooden shoes, who dances no less vigorously with his head and
arms than with his legs; and how earnestly he does bend to his work!
He is one incessant teeter. While the music sounds he never flags. He
spins, he whirls, he balances: he stands upon the toes of his wooden
sabots and pirouettes with clumsy ease, like one on stilts. He claps
his hands smartly together, flings them wildly above his head, and
pounds away with his feet as if it were his firm intention to go
through into the cellar. But, though our attention is centred on him,
he is by no means alone or peculiar. Around and around whirl others
and others, under the gleaming chandeliers, in the clouds of tobacco
smoke, dancing as vigorously, flinging their hands above their heads
as wildly, as he.
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