It was, indeed. They came back, their cheeks flushed, their eyes bright with wine. Some of them too tipsy to stand, rolled upon the rout seats, and so fell fast asleep. I observed that the great ladies and the gentlemen with them did not return after supper: their absence removed some restraint: and the gentlemen who had arrived without a masquerade dress did not come back after supper. The company was thinner, but it was much louder: there was no longer any pretence of keeping up a character: the Quack left off bawling his wares: the showman deserted his show: the fortune-tellers left their tents: the Hermit left his cell: the dancing and tumbling girls joined in the general throng: there were many sets formed but little regular dancing: all were broken up by rushes of young men more than half drunk: they caught the girls and kissed them--nothing loth, though they shrieked: it was a proof that the gentlewomen had all gone, that no one resented this rudeness--either a partner or the girl herself: the scene became an orgy: all together were romping, touzling, laughing, shrieking, and quarrelling. Still the music kept up: still we played with unflinching arm and all the spirit which can be put into them, the most stirring dance tunes. At last they left off trying to dance: some of the women lay back on the rout seats partly with liquor overcome and partly with fatigue: men were sprawling unable to get up: bottles of wine were brought up from the supper-room and handed round. The men grew every minute noisier: the women shrieked louder and more shrilly--perhaps with cause. And every minute some slipped away and the crowd grew thinner, till there were left little more than a heap of drunken men and weary women. At last word came up that it was five o'clock, the time for closing. The conductor laid down his violin: the night's work was over: we would go. The people below clamoured for more music, but in vain. Then they, too, began to stream out noisily. As I passed the supper-room I saw that half a dozen young fellows had got in and were noisily clamouring for champagne. The waiters who were clearing the supper took no notice. Then one of them with a bludgeon set to work and began to smash plates, glasses, dishes, bottles, windows, in a kind of a frenzy of madness or mischief. Half a dozen stout fellows rushed at him: carried him out of the supper-room and so into the Square outside. It was a fitting end for the Masquerade. While I was looking on, I was touched on the arm by a mask. I knew her by her white satin dress for Madame. I had seen her from time to time flitting about the room, sometimes with a partner, sometimes alone. She was conversing one moment with a gentleman whose star betokened his rank, and the next with one of her paid actors or actresses, directing the sports. I had seen her dancing two minuets in succession each with a grace and dignity which no other woman in the room could equal.