And more keenly did these thoughts distract her mind after the--to her--fatal night of the _bal masqué_. CHAPTER XVIII. LE REDOUTE MONSTRE. Alison found herself in a great oblong saloon, brilliantly lighted by crystal gaseliers, decorated by lofty mirrors, surrounded by a colonnade of elegant pillars and overlooked by a balustraded orchestra occupied by the fine band of the Garde Municipale. The centre of this saloon, the floor of which was carefully waxed, was specially reserved for dancers; but a platform on four sides of it, and without the lines of pillars, was occupied by promenaders, for whom there were seats and lounges. One end was closed by the proscenium and green curtain of the Théâtre des Variétés. The majority of the male dancers were in evening costume, though a few wore fancy dresses, and there were spider-waisted Belgian officers from the adjacent Caserne St. Georges, with loose gold epaulets, dark blue tunics, and baggy light grey pantaloons. Many of the ladies were in fancy costume--some a little _prononcé_, being almost that of the Corps de Ballet, though their dresses were often trimmed with rich, old, coffee-coloured Flemish lace; but the majority wore dominoes of black satin or silk, and all had black velvet masks and thin black lace veils, or head-dresses, like the Spanish mantilla, so commonly worn by the women in some parts of Belgium--a relic of the days of the Duke of Alva--the 'Castigator de los Flamencos.' Many were hovering about in corners, or near certain pillars, evidently waiting to keep appointments made elsewhere with those who would recognise them--though masked to the upper lip--by a particular flower worn in the breast, by the rosettes on their white kid boots, a little patch on the chin, or so forth; and while the round dances--waltzes, polkas, and mazurka--were in progress, Alison, to whom the scene was entirely new, watched the lovers--for such she supposed they must be, and no doubt many were--and, with an interest in which her own heart shared, saw many a glad meeting, a smile, a pressure of the hand interchanged; and then by tacit consent they whirled into the gay and fast-increasing throng, while overhead the music of Straus or Chopin came pealing from the lofty orchestra. Alison felt her little feet beating time to the music, the 'Soldatenlieder' of Herr Gung'l, 'Je t'aime' of Waldteufel, and so forth. How she longed, sealskin jacket and all, to join in the then delicious waltzes! She was very young, and life would indeed be wretched were it a blank at her years. The whole scene was a novel and brilliant one; most strange to her eyes, and, if her situation was an anxious one in Antwerp, it was not without its sad romance; but for a time, as she looked around her, she forgot even that, or was only recalled to it when Lord Cadbury addressed her.