She threw herself into the midst of the quadrille, caught hold of two of them, one grasping her right hand the other her left, and managed to infuse such life into the dance that the wooden flooring creaked beneath them.  The only sounds now audible rose from the hurrying hither and thither of tiny feet beating wholly out of time, the piano alone keeping to the dance measure.  Some more of the older people joined in the fun.  Helene and Madame Deberle, noticing some little maids who were too bashful to venture forth, dragged them into the thickest of the throng.  It was they who led the figures, pushed the lads forward, and arranged the dancing in rings; and the mothers passed them the youngest of the babies, so that they might make them skip about for a moment, holding them the while by both hands.  The ball was now at its height.  The dancers enjoyed themselves to their hearts’ content, laughing and pushing each other about like some boarding school mad with glee over the absence of the teacher.  Nothing, truly, could surpass in unalloyed gaiety this carnival of youngsters, this assemblage of miniature men and women—­akin to a veritable microcosm, wherein the fashions of every people mingled with the fantastic creations of romance and drama.  The ruddy lips and blue eyes, the faces breathing love, invested the dresses with the fresh purity of childhood.  The scene realized to the mind the merrymaking of a fairy-tale to which trooped Cupids in disguise to honor the betrothal of some Prince Charming.

“I’m stifling!” exclaimed Malignon.  “I’m off to inhale some fresh air.”

As he left the drawing-room he threw the door wide open.  The daylight from the street then entered in a lurid stream, bedimming the glare of lamps and candles.  In this fashion every quarter of an hour Malignon opened the door to let in some fresh air.

Still there was no cessation of the piano-playing.  Little Guiraud, in her Alsatian costume, with a butterfly of black ribbon in her golden hair, swung round in the dance with a harlequin twice her height.  A Highlander whirled Marguerite Tissot round so madly that she lost her milk-pail.  The two Berthier girls, Blanche and Sophie, who were inseparables, were dancing together; the soubrette in the arms of Folly, whose bells were jingling merrily.  A glance could not be thrown over the assemblage without one of the Levasseur girls coming into view; the Red Riding-Hoods seemed to increase in number; caps and gowns of gleaming red satin slashed with black velvet everywhere leaped into sight.  Meanwhile some of the older boys and girls had found refuge in the adjacent saloon, where they could dance more at their ease.  Valentine de Chermette, cloaked in the mantilla of a Spanish senorita, was executing some marvellous steps in front of a young gentleman who had donned evening dress.  Suddenly there was a burst of laughter which drew every one to the sight; behind a door in a corner, baby Guiraud, the two-year-old clown, and a mite of a girl of his own age, in peasant costume, were holding one another in a tight embrace for fear of tumbling, and gyrating round and round like a pair of slyboots, with cheek pressed to cheek.