with appropriate weapons. The difficult poses are maintained with a grace and spirit which do infinite credit to the actors as the cars jolt along over the rough pavement. A youthful goddess, who might be the spirit of the dawn, casts flowers to the ladies in the balcony, and a red rose falls into Margaret's lap. She bows and smiles, and the youth behind the skilfully painted mask throws a kiss after the rose, while the people in the street laugh and applaud.
"Who can it be?" she asks of the man who stands behind her.
But even if he knows, Robert Feuardent denies all knowledge of the masker. These merry gentlemen, keep their identity a secret from the world. The element of mystery adds indeed to the interest of the whole glittering, fantastic parade as it sweeps down Canal Street and through some of the humbler thoroughfares of the town. Not only for the amusement of their peers do these men of the world masquerade in so brilliant a fashion, but for the people, high and low. The procession has passed, and Philip Rondelet follows the wake of the sinuous line of light to its final destination, the Opera-House in the old French quarter. As he reaches the entrance, a carriage stops, and Mrs. Harden, followed by her husband, alights from it.
"How good of you to wait for us!" she cried
