I suppose no one not in the confidence of the managers of these places would readily credit to what an extent the public masquerade-balls of Paris are the peculiar possession of the blousard.  The gaping crowds of English and Americans who go to the disreputable Jardin Mabille and the like resorts in summer to gaze at what they imagine is a scene of French revelry, do not know that the cancan-dancer there is paid for his jollity.  The men who dance at the Jardin Mabille are not there for revelry’s sake:  they are earning a few sous from the manager, who knows that he must do something to amuse his usual spectators—­viz., the tourists—­who go back to Manchester or to Omaha and astonish their friends with tales of the goings-on of those dreadful Frenchmen in Paris.  The women who disport in the cancan at the same place are simply hired by the season.  It is not at the Jardin Mabille that the visitor to Paris need ever look to see genuine revelry:  the place is as much a place of jollification for the people as the stage of a theatre is, and no more.  Very often the dancer at night is a blousard by day.  So at many of the masquerade-balls which rage in the winter, particularly during the weeks just preceding Mardi Gras.  These are less purely tourist astonishers than the Jardin Mabille.  They are largely visited by the fast young men and old beaux and roues of Paris, but these are almost never seen to go upon the floor and dance.  In the crowded ball-room of the Valentino on a masquerade-night you may have observed with wondering awe the gyrations of an extraordinary couple around whom a ring has been formed, giving them free space on the floor for their wild abandon of exercise.  The man is long, lank and grotesque; he wears a tail coat which reaches the floor, and upon his back is strapped a crazy guitar with broken strings; his false nose stands out from his face at prodigious length; his hat is a bottle, his gloves are buckskin gauntlets, and his trousers are those of a circus-rider.  The woman does not hide her face with a mask, for her face is her fortune, and she cannot afford to hide it:  she is painted tastefully with vermilion and white; abundant false curls cluster at her neck, and are surmounted by a dainty little punchinello cap in pink silk and gilding; her dress is every color of the rainbow, and reaches to her knees; blue gaiters with pink rosettes are on her feet, and kid gloves are on her hands.  The saltatory terpsichoreanisms of this couple are seemingly inspired by a mad gayety of spirit which only the utmost extravagance of gesture and pirouette will satisfy.  The man flings his feet above the woman’s head; the woman sinks to the floor, and springs up again as if made of tempered steel; and as a conclusion to the figure she turns a complete somersault in the air.  If you are so innocent as to suppose that these performers are exerting themselves in that manner for the mere pleasure of the thing, you are innocent indeed.  They are “artists,” and receive a salary from the manager of the Valentino.