René Voclain woke near to sundown, because he had been awake until noon the night before. The pleasures of the night would wait for no one. He assumed that the invitation had been left by a paramour, but found it odd that he could detect no trace of anyone upon the paper. And how odd for it to be in English! What Englishman could possibly have found their way into a fashionable gentleman's bedroom? He licked it, and accomplished nothing in the process.
What a peculiar and delightful prospect.
Should he wear something decent to greet them, the fellows at this mysterious green door? But what a waste, when they would be dressing him. If they did not anticipate his showing up half-dressed, with an invitation such as this, they did not know him very well.
He left his bedroom in nothing but a half-fastened dressing gown, and found the green door at the end of the hall. There was no door there, and it rightfully ought to have lead right out into the garden, after a three-story fall. He laughed, utterly delighted by the nonsensical nature of it, and stepped through without the slightest hesitation.
A light that burned his eyelids and a terrible chill, but when he was through he was standing in front of a mirror.
It looked utterly unlike any suit he had ever worn. What peculiar material, and what a strange cravat. He found the pin in his lapel to be a skull, and on closer inspection, so too was his shirt decorated in such dreadful symbols.
He laughed again, and did a twirl to observe himself. He did cut quite a figure, didn't he? Even if it seemed entirely too much black. He looked downright funerary, didn't he? And no makeup at all, his hair tumbling loose and wild over his shoulders. The black domino mask made him look quite the criminal, though he did not think that anyone who knew him would have any trouble identifying him. He looked at the ring that had appeared on his finger, silver and set with seven opals. He spun it around the digit, and wondered if he was dreaming.
What a very strange dream, if he was.
The thing to do, when one was dreaming, was to behave as if everything were perfectly ordinary. This was also a good rule of thumb for situations which were not dreams. So he strolled into the ballroom, which dwarfed him utterly. Everything was light, and despite the size of it the room was awash with flesh and fabric, teeming with all sorts of emotions of such strength and volume that for a moment he was overwhelmed by them. Even at Versailles, he had never seen so many people. He saw a few men wearing suits alike to his, though he was biased to think that his own was better.
So many lovely people, feeling so many lovely things. Who would he have first? Perhaps he would work his way around the room, clockwise, until he'd finished at the center. Certainly not the woman in the red gown; she would clash terribly with him, and she seemed a terrible dancer, besides.
He grinned, wide and crooked and sharp, eyes bright blue as he snatched from a faceless man a glass of champagne.
What a fascinating day he seemed to be having.
What a peculiar and delightful prospect.
Should he wear something decent to greet them, the fellows at this mysterious green door? But what a waste, when they would be dressing him. If they did not anticipate his showing up half-dressed, with an invitation such as this, they did not know him very well.
He left his bedroom in nothing but a half-fastened dressing gown, and found the green door at the end of the hall. There was no door there, and it rightfully ought to have lead right out into the garden, after a three-story fall. He laughed, utterly delighted by the nonsensical nature of it, and stepped through without the slightest hesitation.
A light that burned his eyelids and a terrible chill, but when he was through he was standing in front of a mirror.
It looked utterly unlike any suit he had ever worn. What peculiar material, and what a strange cravat. He found the pin in his lapel to be a skull, and on closer inspection, so too was his shirt decorated in such dreadful symbols.
He laughed again, and did a twirl to observe himself. He did cut quite a figure, didn't he? Even if it seemed entirely too much black. He looked downright funerary, didn't he? And no makeup at all, his hair tumbling loose and wild over his shoulders. The black domino mask made him look quite the criminal, though he did not think that anyone who knew him would have any trouble identifying him. He looked at the ring that had appeared on his finger, silver and set with seven opals. He spun it around the digit, and wondered if he was dreaming.
What a very strange dream, if he was.
The thing to do, when one was dreaming, was to behave as if everything were perfectly ordinary. This was also a good rule of thumb for situations which were not dreams. So he strolled into the ballroom, which dwarfed him utterly. Everything was light, and despite the size of it the room was awash with flesh and fabric, teeming with all sorts of emotions of such strength and volume that for a moment he was overwhelmed by them. Even at Versailles, he had never seen so many people. He saw a few men wearing suits alike to his, though he was biased to think that his own was better.
So many lovely people, feeling so many lovely things. Who would he have first? Perhaps he would work his way around the room, clockwise, until he'd finished at the center. Certainly not the woman in the red gown; she would clash terribly with him, and she seemed a terrible dancer, besides.
He grinned, wide and crooked and sharp, eyes bright blue as he snatched from a faceless man a glass of champagne.
What a fascinating day he seemed to be having.
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