after all this scrimmage is over. So he
holds in his horses with one hand, crowds down his fur hat with the
other, so that his eyes will be safe; and then bravely faces the
stinging shower of _confetti_ his lord and master draws down on him. Up
on the back seat of this carriage, all life and fire, stands the Russian
prince, with headpiece of mail and red surtout, a Carnival Circassian,
'down on' the slow-plodding Italians, and throwing himself away with
flowers and fun. Isn't he a picture? how his blue eyes gleam, how his
long, wavy moustache curls with the play of features! how the flowers
fly--how the rubles fly for them! Look at the other Russians--there are
beards for you! beards grown where brandy freezes! but, they are thawed
out now. Look at these men: hear their wild northern tongue, how it
rolls out the sounds that frighten Italians back to sleepy sonnets and
voluptuous songs. Hurrah, my Russians! look fate in the face. _Your_
road is--onward!

'Ah, yes; and really, my dear'--here a handful of white pills and lime
dust breaks the sentence--'really my dear, hadn't we better'--'bang!'
comes a tough bouquet, and hits milady on that bonnet--'better go to the
hotel?'

'Indeed, now,' milady continues, 'they don't respect persons, these low
Italians. They haven't the faintest idea of dignity.'

These 'low Italians' were more than probably fellow countrymen and women
of the speaker; but they may have been 'low' all the same in her social
barometer, for they pitched and flung, hurled and threw all the missiles
they could lay hands on into the carriage of their unmistakable
compatriots, with hearty delight; since the gentleman, who was not
gentle, sat upright as a church steeple, never moving a muscle, and
looking angry and worried at being flung at; and the milady also sat _a
la mode de_ church steeple--throwing nothing but angry looks. They
_went_ to the hotel. Sorrow go with them!

Caper and Rocjean now began to throw desperately, for they had a large
supply of flowers and _confetti_ on hand, which they were anxious to
dispose of suddenly--since in ten minutes the horses would run, and then
the carriages must leave the Corso. It was the last day of Carnival, and
to-morrow--sackcloth and ashes. How the masks crowd around them; how the
beautiful faces, unmasked, are smiling! Look at them well, stamp them on
your heart, for many and many one shall we see never again. Another
Carnival will bring them again, like song