!" said the butler, becoming thoughtful; "where are they?"

"They have just gone upstairs; they are there now," answered the waiter,
shaking his head with an air of alarm; "yes, they are there!"

"What does master say?"

"He is very vexed, because--" and the waiter glanced round at the
guests. "He does not know what to do; he has sent me to you."

"What the devil have I to do with it?" said the other; wiping his
forehead. "It was to be expected, and cannot be helped."

"I will not remain here till they begin."

"You may as well go, for your long face already attracts attention. Tell
master we must wait for the upshot."

The above incident was scarcely perceived in the midst of the growing
tumult of the joyous feast. But, among the guests, one alone laughed
not, drank not. This was Jacques. With fixed and lurid eye, he gazed
upon vacancy. A stranger to what was passing around him, the unhappy man
thought of the Bacchanal Queen, who had been so gay and brilliant in the
midst of similar saturnalia. The remembrance of that one being, whom
he still loved with an extravagant love, was the only thought that from
time to time roused him from his besotted state.

It is strange, but Jacques had only consented to join this masquerade
because the mad scene reminded him of the merry day he had spent with
Cephyse--that famous breakfast, after a night of dancing, in which the
Bacchanal Queen, from some extraordinary presentiment, had proposed a
lugubrious toast with regard to this very pestilence, which was then
reported to be approaching France. "To the Cholera!" had she said. "Let
him spare those who wish to live, and kill at the same moment those who
dread to part!"

And now, at this time, remembering those mournful words, Jacques was
absorbed in painful thought. Morok perceived his absence of mind, and
said aloud to him, "You have given over drinking, Jacques. Have you had
enough wine? Then you will want brandy. I will send for some."

"I want neither wine nor brandy," answered Jacques, abruptly, and he
fell back into a sombre reverie.

"Well, you may be right," resumed Morok, in a sardonic tone, and raising
his voice still higher. "You do well to take care of yourself. I was
wrong to name brandy in these times. There would be as much temerity in
facing a bottle of brandy as the barrel of a loaded pistol."

On hearing his courage as a toper called in question, Sleepinbuff looked
angrily at Morok. "You think it is from