"What a blank life I shall pass with a person like Croisenois," she said to herself as he took her back to her place an hour afterwards. "What pleasure do I get," she added sadly, "if after an absence of six months I find myself at a ball which all the women of Paris were mad with jealousy to go to? And what is more I am surrounded by the homage of an ideally constituted circle of society. The only bourgeois are some peers and perhaps one or two Juliens. And yet," she added with increasing sadness, "what advantages has not fate bestowed upon me! Distinction, fortune, youth, everything except happiness. My most dubious advantages are the very ones they have been speaking to me about all the evening. Wit, I believe I have it, because I obviously frighten everyone. If they venture to tackle a serious subject, they will arrive after five minutes of conversation and as though they had made a great discovery at a conclusion which we have been repeating to them for the last hour. I am beautiful, I have that advantage for which madame de Stael would have sacrificed everything, and yet I'm dying of boredom. Shall I have reason to be less bored when I have changed my name for that of the marquis de Croisenois? "My God though," she added, while she almost felt as if she would like to cry, "isn't he really quite perfect? He's a paragon of the education of the age; you can't look at him without his finding something charming and even witty to say to you; he is brave. But that Sorel is strange," she said to herself, and the expression of her eyes changed from melancholy to anger. "I told him that I had something to say to him and he hasn't deigned to reappear." CHAPTER XXXIX THE BALL The luxurious dresses, the glitter of the candles; all those pretty arms and fine shoulders; the bouquets, the intoxicating strains of Rossini, the paintings of Ciceri. I am beside myself.--_Journeys of Useri_. "You are in a bad temper," said the marquise de la Mole to her; "let me caution you, it is ungracious at a ball." "I only have a headache," answered Mathilde disdainfully, "it is too hot here." At this moment the old Baron Tolly became ill and fell down, as though to justify mademoiselle de la Mole's remark. They were obliged to carry him away. They talked about apoplexy. It was a disagreeable incident. Mathilde did not bother much about it. She made a point of never looking at old men, or at anyone who had the reputation of being bad company. She danced in order to escape the conversation about the apoplexy, which was not apoplexy inasmuch as the baron put in an appearance the following day. "But Sorel does not come," she said to herself after she had danced. She was almost looking round for him when she found him in another salon. Astonishing, but he seemed to have lost that impassive coldness that was so natural to him; he no longer looked English.