The bal masque might well have been a native of
the Crescent City. It is here more at home than in
any other portion of the Union. Here it belongs to
the original sources of society—the creation of a
Provençal and Andalusian parentage. It accords with

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the flexible mood of the people, their social readiness,
the felicity of their humor, its play, and liveliness.
It is also characteristic of a nature that loves to turn
aside to regions of its own, to dream, and indulge in
fanciful wanderings. It is grateful to the South; it
belongs to starlight and flowers, and appeals to tastes
and sensibilities, which, in consequence of the very
intensity of the native passions, prefers to disguise
the over-earnest impulses, and to mask from exposure
the too eager susceptibilities. That it is a dangerous
recreation, as calculated to promote intrigue, is perhaps
only true of it among a colder and more calculating
people. I doubt if it is employed for any
such purpose in New Orleans. It is simply one of
the sports which constitute the romance of society,
and divert it from its passions. It belongs rather to
the play of the people than to their appetites. It
brings out ingenious resource in conversation; exercises
the subtleties of small social diplomacy; enables
a bashful lover, perhaps, to declare, under a monk's
visage, what he would not venture beneath his own;
but seldom goes a fraction farther. It is the colder
and more deliberate nature that plans and contrives
such an agency for the promotion of more dangerous
and deeper purposes; a prurient and vicious mind,
that forever broods over its mere appetites; nursing,
by means of thought, those characteristics which
properly belong only to the sanguine impulses. The
passions of the warm South, once aroused, would
break through and fling aside all disguises. It cannot
often employ hypocrisy for the purposes of passion;

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and is as far as possible from any cold calculations in
respect to it. These belong really to regions where
the blood is never too warm for the control of the
intellect; and where, accordingly, the intellect itself
is made use of to stimulate the ardor and the fervor
of the blood.

But a truce to these preliminaries. Let it suffice
that the bal masque of Madame de Berniere was one
of the most splendid affairs that had ever taken place
in New Orleans. It was decidedly beyond anything
that I had ever dreamed of as likely to occur in our
time and country. It realized all my fancies of what
might happen in foreign lands, where wealth, art,
taste, and luxury combine for the gratification of the
senses and the delight of the imagination.

The mansion of Madame de Berniere was a huge
antique double establishment, situated in the rue de—,
the “court” precinct in the old French city.
Its dimensions were sufficiently ample even for the
vast entertainment which it now afforded.

We came at an early hour. The place was illuminated
gloriously, from basement to attic; the lights
disposed in wreaths, in stars, in crescents, upon the
windows, making deep night in that narrow street
emulous of noonday. The long treble line of carriages
which filled the avenue, even at the early hour
of our coming, declared, as certainly as any other
sign, the sensation which the affair had occasioned
among the ancient aristocracy of this the American
Paris. The broad passage-way, through which the
dwelling was entered, was crowded ere we came; and

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it required a struggle to secure ingress, through the
multitude. I was dazzled and bewildered, and but for
Madame de Chateauneuve, must have been lost. What
with the glance of lights, the confusion of tongues,
the splendor and variety of costumes, the blaze of
jewels, and the frequent bursts of a full and noble
orchestra, I was completely taken from my feet. My
eyes wandered from subject to subject, with an absolute
consternation. I began to fancy myself in some
famous European palace, amongst crowned heads and
nobility. There they were, looking like the life.
There were kings and princes; popes and cardinals;
dukes, and lords, and knights; jongleurs and troubadours;
Cleopatra, with her basket of asps and apples;
Anne Bullen, followed by the headsman, and a wondrous
array of other famous individual characters from
the days of Solomon to those of Louis Quatorze, and
later. But mine is not a catalogue, and the reader
must conceive for himself the assortment of distinguished
personages, such as would be likely to make
their appearance on an occasion so grateful to aristocracy.

We struggled as we could, through the dense and
shifting masses, until we reached the dais of reception,
where, until a certain hour—until the guests, in fact,
were all assembled—our fair hostess sat in a modest
state, unmarked, and in ordinary ball costume. Here,
in simplest white, with one pale rose just blossoming
in her hand, Marie de Berniere shone as a star of the
first magnitude. I had the honor to present Madame
Chateauneuve, while Frederick Brandon followed us.

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I felt very much like falling upon one knee, as to
royalty, and making my profound obeisance to the
beautiful sovereign, who, looking so much like Una,
the mistress of the snow-white lamb, as described by
Spenser, seemed to be now entirely without defect—
a perfect creature of delight. Her beauty, I confess,
at this moment, seemed completely pure, and without
qualification. She was really in her element.

What was the delight of my friend, I could readily
conjecture, though I am sure, even had his visor been
lifted, that no one could have suspected the fervor of
his fancy, or the depth of his attachment, in that
calm white brow, and that sweet repose and gentle
satisfaction which rayed out modestly from his great
blue eyes. I watched both the parties as he drew
nigh to make his bow, and fancied that the smile
with which she welcomed him was one of peculiar indulgence.
That she knew all of us, though we came
in character and masks, was the natural consequence
of the arrangement for the ball, by which she possessed
an advantage over all her guests. It was one
of the modes adopted for securing the company from
the intrusion of improper or uninvited persons, that
each expected guest was required to apprize her of
the costume in which they would appear. His card,
with her signature, could alone secure admission to
the mansion, which was guarded by a strong police of
gens d' armes.

This plan gave her a key to all the characters present;
and I could see that her eye lingered earnestly
upon the erect form of my friend, shrouded as it was

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in the flowing garments of the Egyptian magian.
But we were compelled to give place to other personages.

The preliminaries of reception may have consumed
an hour, when, without signal, Madame Marie de
Berniere disappeared from the circle, in which all was
now life and animation. When she again returned,
it was only to be lost among the thousand masks of
which nothing could be known except by conjecture.
The music timed all our proceedings, whether we
danced, walked, or took refreshments. We had a numerous
range of apartments on an upper and a lower
floor. A piazza in the rear of the building was inclosed
with canvas, artfully arrayed with festoons and
flowers, and draped with shawls and curtains. This,
in turn, conducted, by a flight of steps, into the loveliest
court, where every variety of flower and shrub
was congregated to give softness and sweetness to the
scene. In that warm latitude, even in February, it
was sometimes pleasant to glide into the cool porches,
and inhale the fresh breathings from the cisterns of
the night. All was privilege and pleasure, within the
bounds of propriety and taste. Now we grew together
in groups, interested by the attractive and
spirited dialogue of masks which were doing more
than common justice to the characters they had assumed;
and now we lingered over the prophecies of
some saucy gypsy, who used truth like a winged arrow—
as, by the way, it always is —sure to hit some bosom,
however randomly sent; and now we followed,
laughingly, after the ludicrous antics of some clever

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Arlecchino, who might have earned his bread in Italy
where his art is more native than with us.

It was not long before, on every hand, the usual
silly preliminary of “I know you!” had given way to
settled dialogue, and, if the phrase be not an absurdity,
of serious conversation. The groups were now pretty
much broken up into pairs, each drawing aside with
him that mask which promised him most pleasure,
most excited his curiosity, or most gratified his vanity.
Of my own adventures and successes I shall say but
little. It needs not even be told in what costume I
appeared on this to me the most memorable of all
my social experiences. My fortune, I must admit,
was neither a very promising nor highly prominent
one. I may have flirted with a maid of honor, or
fancied that I felt a more than usual interest in a
Sicilian shepherdess—or squeezed, more tenderly than
was prudent, the fingers of a Hebrew damsel who
sighed over her virginity in the character of Jephtha's
daughter. You may conjecture what you please. I
shall make no confessions. It is my friend's story,
not my own, which I have promised you, and we shall
soon get to that. Certain it is, that for my own part
the proceedings were by no means satisfactory. I had
my vis-à-vis, true—and changed her, often enough;
more frequently, perhaps, than was complimentary to
her or profitable to myself; but I made no conquests,
and escaped scot-free myself. I strove, but did not
succeed, in persuading any of them to remove their
masks, though but for an instant, and was rather fatigued
than satisfied, long before anybody else was ennuyée.

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Such, however, was far from being the case with
Frederick Brandon. He came to me a little after
midnight. The clocks throughout the house had all
been silenced; and, half wearied, I was stealing a
glance at my watch concealed within the folds of my
vest, when he laid his hand upon my arm. I turned,
with a guilty consciousness, and he saw what I was
doing.

“Fie!” said he, “looking at your watch. What
a barbarian—what a Tennessean! Beware, you must
not suffer our hostess to see you at such a provincialism.”

“She! Where is she? In what habit?”

“Hush! She is not far off! See there—there, as
Zenobia. Is she not a queenly creature?”

“She is, indeed.”

“How the habit suits her! She approaches.”

At these words, Frederick turned, and advanced
towards her. She took his arm promptly, as soon as
offered, and they disappeared among the groups. This
proceeding spoke favorably for my friend's success.
It would seem that they understood each other. I
followed their forms with my eyes, until a group of
masks, loud in merriment, drew nigh, and I shrunk
back from their clamors, into the recess of a window
half shrouded by rich curtains of blue and crimson.
There I threw myself upon a pile of cushions, gradually
losing myself in reverie; in great degree unseen
myself, yet able to see every passing costume. While
I mused, a shadow filled the space. I looked up and
saw the Egyptian habit of my friend.

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“Ah, Frederick! So soon returned?” Such were
my words, to which he gave me no answer; but,
wheeling quietly about, he turned away. I rose to
follow, intending to say that I was really monstrous
weary, and meant to seek out his sister, in the hope
to find her similarly disposed to escape; but, just
then, a huge peasant woman of Savoy, followed by an
officer of the “Old Guard,” with a long train at their
heels, interposed, and arrested my progress. Before
I could extricate myself from this multitude, my
Egyptian had disappeared. I had just given up the
pursuit, and was turning again to my recess and cushions,
when I was surprised to find him at my elbow.

He came forward hurriedly, and from a different
quarter of the apartment from that where I had lost
him. I plucked him by the sleeve.

“This time I have you! Well—you have been
with her, and, let me say, you seem to understand
each other. Is it so? Does she smile?”

“Truly,” said he; and I could see that he spoke
with a slight agitation of manner which was quite unusual
with him. “Truly, she does. I have gained
something; but, just now, there's a curious mistake
which has taken place, and which troubles both of us.
Do not be out of the way, William; I may need your
assistance.”

He disappeared at these words, but soon returned,
when I gathered from him the following strange particulars.
He had joined Madame de Berniere, as I
had seen, on his first leaving me, and they had retired
into an alcove together. There, she had proceeded, as

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if resuming a conversation which had been interrupted.
What she said was of a character particularly interesting
and grateful to my friend. Her remarks—
her manner of uttering them—and the nature of the
communication, were such as to impress him with the
conviction that she entertained the most lively interest
in himself and fortunes. All this was grateful
enough. But there was this one difficulty about the
matter, which struck and staggered Brandon, and it
was that what she said indicated a foregone conclusion,
and seemed to have reference to some recent
dialogue which had already taken place between the
parties. Her remarks, in fact, were so many responses;—
all of which would have been grateful
enough to my friend, but for the fact that she appeared
to have anticipated the very things which it had been
his purpose to speak to her. He hesitated about declaring
this difficulty, and, for a moment, was persuaded
that he should be content with the favor which
he had found, without troubling himself as to the particular
influences which had drawn it forth; but a
moment's reflection convinced him of the error into
which he should fall by having any subject of mystery
unexplained between them, and, somewhat hesitatingly,
he proceeded to tell her of the difficulty which
troubled him. Spoken in the most delicate and cautious
manner, she was yet shocked and terrified. She
recoiled from him.

“What mean you, Monsieur Brandon?”

“Do not doubt, dear Marie, that what you say is
grateful to me in the last degree. It gives me what

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I have long wished to sue for—a hope; it encourages
me to speak my dreams—my desires—but—”

“But what, Monsieur Frederick?”

“But truly, this is the first moment when you have
spoken with me on the subject!”

“Ha! What! You forget?”

“On my honor, no! I forget not a word you have
ever spoken to me. Your words have always been
too precious to me to lose. But, until now, we surely
have exchanged not a syllable this night in regard
to—”

“Ah, Monsieur Frederick! how can this be so,
when, but a little while since, we were interrupted
by that ever-troublesome Parisian, who would be a
Count Poniatowski?”

“You have been deceived, Marie. I was not present
at any such interruption.”

“Impossible!”

“It is true! This is the first time to-night that
I have been honored with your conversation.”

“Ciel! and to whom have I spoken?”

It was a reflection to horrify a sensitive spirit, that
a secret so precious to a woman's heart and dignity
should have been committed to a stranger, in the full
conviction that it was unfolded to the only person in
whom she really felt an interest.

The insidiously mysterious manner in which the
confession had been drawn from her, oppressed her
with a strange yet undefinable sense of terror. Brandon
himself, though profoundly indignant at the baseness
of the manœuvre by which she had been imposed

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upon, restrained the warmer expression of his own
feelings, and sought by every means in his power to
soothe the agitation under which she so visibly labored.
But his efforts did not wholly succeed. Her subsequent
responses showed that her mind still dwelt fearfully
upon the incident; and when, at length, the
interview terminated, her last lingering glance was
overshadowed with a sad and mournful presentiment
of coming evil.