Brother Jacques (Novels of Paul de Kock, Volume XVII)Kock, Paul de
General
Brother Jacques (Novels of Paul de Kock, Volume XVII)
Kock, Paul de
Brothers -- Fiction; French fiction -- Translations into English; Paris (France) -- Fiction
The time fixed for the party arrived; between nine and ten o’clock, the
carriages and the pedestrians--for some people always come on foot, even
to the largest balls--the courtyard of Murville’s house in swarms. They
crowded under the porte cochère; the coachmen insulted one another and
disputed for precedence; the young women, wrapped in their pelisses or
cloaks, jumped lightly to the landing, and waited, one for her mother,
another for her husband, to take her up to the salons. The officious
young man mounted the stairs gracefully, his body enveloped in an ample
cloak lined with crimson velvet, which concealed almost the whole of his
face, leaving only the end of his nose visible; he offered his hand to a
young lady whose fear of the horses standing in the courtyard had
separated her from her escort. The young gallant in the cloak saw only a
pair of very expressive eyes and a few curls, for all the rest was
concealed under the hood of a pelisse; but he saw enough to divine
lovely features and the form of a nymph. He gently pressed the hand
which she entrusted to him; he engaged his fair unknown for the first
quadrille, and his hopes were aroused before he had even entered the
reception room. That room was crowded; in one corner the ladies
arranged their dresses, gave a last glance to their finery, which had
become rumpled in the carriage; farther on, in a less brilliantly
lighted spot, a number of economical bank clerks took slippers from
their pockets and put them on in place of their shoes, which they
carefully wrapped in large pieces of paper with their gaiters, and
placed them under some heavy piece of furniture which was not likely to
be moved. After effecting this slight change of costume, they carefully
pulled their ruffs from their waistcoats, retied their cravats, passed
their hands through their hair, rumpling it or smoothing it according as
their style of beauty required, and then, drawing themselves up proudly,
entered the salon with an air of impertinence and conceit which was
calculated to persuade all the other guests that they had come in a
tilbury.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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