the leaves were millions of fantastically colored lampions seeming like
so many glow-worms.[21] To me, poor little rustic of sixteen, it seemed
supernaturally beautiful. But the prettiest part--opposite the door had
been raised a platform surmounted by a dais made of three flags: the
French, Spanish, and Prussian--Prussia was papa's country. And under these
colors, on a pedestal that supported them, were seen, in immense letters
composed of flowers, the one German word, _Bewillkommen_! Papa explained
that the word meant "Welcome." On the platform, attired with inconceivable
elegance, was the master of ceremonies, the handsome Neville Déclouet
himself, waiting to wish us welcome anew.

It would take volumes, my daughter, to describe the admirable toilets,
masculine as well as feminine, of that memorable night. The thing is
impossible. But I must describe that of the king of the festival, the
young Neville, that you may understand the immense difference between the
toilets of 1795 and those of 1822.

Neville had arranged his hair exactly as on the day we first saw him. It
was powdered white; his pigeon-wings were fastened with the same pins of
gold, and his long queue was wrapped with a rose-colored ribbon. His coat
was of frosted rose silk with broad facings of black velvet. His vest came
down nearly to his knees. It also was of rose silk, but covered with black
buttons. His breeches, also rose, were fastened at the knees with black
velvet ribbons escaping from diamond buckles and falling upon silk
stockings shot alternately with black and rose. Diamonds sparkled again on
his lace frill, at his wrists, on his cravat of rose silk, and on the
buckles of his pumps.

I cast my eye around to find Tonton, but she had not come. Some one near
me said, "Do you know who will escort Madame du Rocher to the ball?" And