Step, step, every step one step deeper into his
heart. 'Tite Poulette came to the closed door.
"What will you?" said the voice within.
"I--I--don't wish to see you. I wish to see Madame John."
"I must pray Monsieur to go away. My mother is at the _Salle de Conde_."
"At the ball!" Kristian Koppig strayed off, repeating the words for want
of definite thought. All at once it occurred to him that at the ball he
could make Madame John's acquaintance with impunity. "Was it courting
sin to go?" By no means; he should, most likely, save a woman from
trouble, and help the poor in their distress.
Behold Kristian Koppig standing on the floor of the _Salle de Conde_. A
large hall, a blaze of lamps, a bewildering flutter of fans and floating
robes, strains of music, columns of gay promenaders, a long row of
turbaned mothers lining either wall, gentlemen of the portlier sort
filling the recesses of the windows, whirling waltzers gliding here and
there--smiles and grace, smiles and grace; all fair, orderly, elegant,
bewitching.
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