ing himself to
Irene, "on Saturday we propose to open the carnival in our 'Paradise,'
about which I have already told you. You undoubtedly remember that
young baron, who took our boat in tow that day on the lake, and who
afterward had the difficulty with that murderous scoundrel? He is going
away to America--no one knows exactly why; and, as we all like him, we
are anxious to give him a formal farewell _fete_. For in all the five
points of the globe he will never see again such a masquerade as we can
make for him!"

A short pause followed these words. Irene had suddenly grown as pale as
death; it seemed to her as if she could not breathe; her uncle laid
aside his hunter's album, and rose, contriving, as he did so, to
secretly step on Schnetz's toe--the latter was apparently occupied in
the most innocent manner, with his heavy silver watch-chain, from which
were suspended a boar's tooth, a few trinkets, and a large seal ring.

"_Comment?_" said the old lady. "He is going off to America? _C'est
drole_--and at this time of year--_au c[oe]ur de l'hiver!_ And I have
been meaning to ask you, my dear Schnetz, to bring this young man to
see me--he certainly looks as if he might be a magnificent dancer, and
from his birth and education he could not but prefer the balls in
society to any dancing parties that your artist friends might give."

"That is a question, countess," remarked Schnetz, dryly, as he rubbed
his disfigured ear; "or, rather, knowing the man as I do, it is not a
question at all. My friend's taste is altogether too unprejudiced for
him to consult the peerage to find out whether he may amuse himself or
not, or to judge by a merry dancer's eyes whether she is worth having
for a partner. He has had sufficient experience of what you are pleased
to call society to enable him to turn his back upon it without regret.
He now seeks society where he can find it; and, if it belongs to the
set you consider disreputable, it is good enough for him on carnival
eve, if for no other reason than because the so-called 'good society'
is only called so because, as a well-known Weimar councilor once
remarked, 'it never yet afforded material for even the smallest
poem.'"

"_Toujours le meme frondeur!_" laughed the old lady. "_Mais on doit
pourtant observer les convenances_; I mean, even if your friend does
sometimes condescend to enter this _Boheme_, as you yourself do--"

Schnetz immediately cleared his throat loudly. "As to the