t be near. The finger only pointed
to half past eleven, so that I must still possess my soul in patience
for half an hour. It was a lovely, mild, moonlight night; the doors to
the tapestried passage and the colonnade had been thrown open, and I
concluded to take a breath of the fragrant air and a rapid view of the
illuminated town in its festive brilliancy of a carnival night.

A female pierrot dances past me with Don Juan, and, with a laugh,
throws a handful of confetti in my face. I retaliate--a few phrases are
exchanged--I look after her for a moment--and then turn to the entrance
of the corridor, to get out into the colonnade.

I am rooted to the ground!

Standing aside in a corner, on the very same spot as before, is my nun,
staring at me with the same unfathomable eyes as a week ago!

Where had she come from?

Out of the ground? Or had she slipped in through the door during my
banter with the pierrot?

She had come through the door, of course.

I am utterly amazed. The same costume. The same joke. How clumsy of the
prince to repeat himself, I am inclined to ignore the impertinent young
gentleman, and pass him proudly by--yet--strange--again I am attracted
irresistibly, as by a supernatural power, held by those black orbs. I
am quite certain of my wits this time: the dress is really the forbidden
costume of a nun, and, so far as I can judge, exact in every particular.
On her breast hangs a large cross, which is especially conspicuous. It
is of dull gold, with emeralds and pearls inlaid, of peculiar shape,
and certainly antique. The pious nun seems to have regaled herself with
excessive haste at some sideboard, since the white collar and the front
of the gray bodice show oblong dark stains, as though some beverage had
been spilt.

"Well, fair mask," finally remark in a mocking tone, although my heart
is beating furiously, "you have been waiting for me here, I presume?"

She nods slowly and solemnly.

"Do you imagine, by chance, that I wish to dance another hurricane with
you?"

Again she assents, but more emphatically.

"Then," say I, ironically, "see where you can find a new blockhead, my
muscular fairy! My shoulders are not well yet!"

Her arms move--hands there are none visible in the long, roomy
sleeves--they are stretched out to me as if in mute appeal. A cold
shiver runs down my back, I know not why.

"If I dance with you again," I angrily exclaim, "you will not fare quite
so well as last tim