Alas! man proposes.  The next morning she was in bed suffering greatly with her throat.  “Neither supper nor ball for me this evening,” she said.  “The Countess de la Houssaye will take care of you and Celeste this evening."...

At last our toilets were complete....

When Madame de la Houssaye opened the door and saw us, instead of approaching, she suddenly stopped with her hands clasped convulsively, and with eyes dilated and a pallor and look of astonishment that I shall never forget.  I was about to speak when she ran to Suzanne and seized her by the arm.

“Child! for pity answer me!  Where did that dress—­these jewels, come from?”

“Madame!” said my sister, quickly taking offense.

“Francoise!” cried the countess, “you will answer me.  Listen.  The last time I saw the Countess Aurelie de Morainville, six years ago, was at a reception of Queen Marie Antoinette, and she wore a dress exactly like that of Suzanne’s.  My child, pity my emotions and tell me where you bought that toilet.”  I answered, almost as deeply moved as she: 

“We did not buy it, madame.  These costumes were given to us by Madame Carpentier.”

“Given!  Do you know the price of these things?”

“Yes; and, moreover, Madame du Clozel has told us.”

“And you tell me a poor woman, the wife of a gardener, made you these presents.  Oh!  I must see this Madame Carpentier.  She must have known Alix.  And who knows—­oh, yes, yes!  I must go myself and see her.”

“And I must give her forewarning,” I said to myself.  But, alas! as I have just said, “Man proposes, God disposes.”  About six months after our return to St. James we heard of the death of the Countess de la Houssaye, which had occurred only two months after our leaving St. Martinville....

* * * * *

Oh, how my heart beat as I saw the lights of the ball-room and heard its waves of harmony!  I had already attended several dances in the neighborhood of our home, but they could not compare with this.  The walls were entirely covered with green branches mingled with flowers of all colors, especially with magnolias whose odor filled the room.  Hidden among the leaves were millions of fantastically colored lampions seeming like so many glow-worms.[21] To me, poor little rustic of sixteen, it seemed supernaturally beautiful.  But the prettiest part—­opposite the door had been raised a platform surmounted by a dais made of three flags:  the French, Spanish, and Prussian—­Prussia was papa’s country.  And under these colors, on a pedestal that supported them, were seen, in immense letters composed of flowers, the one German word, Bewillkommen!  Papa explained that the word meant “Welcome.”  On the platform, attired with inconceivable elegance, was the master of ceremonies, the handsome Neville Declouet himself, waiting to wish us welcome anew.

It would take volumes, my daughter, to describe the admirable toilets, masculine as well as feminine, of that memorable night.  The thing is impossible.  But I must describe that of the king of the festival, the young Neville, that you may understand the immense difference between the toilets of 1795 and those of 1822.