A Mystery of Paris

by Emerson Bennett

It was during the season of the Carnival, and I was at a masked ball, at the French Opera House, in Paris. It was past three in the morning, and I was seriously thinking of retiring from that wild, boisterous scene—not to call it by any harsher name—in which I had been a participant for hours. I was weary—weary of the dance, the lights, the music, the crowd, the noise and confusion, the silly nothings that were being continually dinned in my ear by the flirting maskers—and I had withdrawn from the press and seated myself in the most quiet spot I could find.

While I was thus sitting apart from the throng, listlessly gazing upon that which no longer gave me pleasure, a mask, in the dress of a page, sauntered quietly past me, and said, in a low, guarded tone:

“Monsieur will not seem to see or hear, but will look for the blue domino with a single spot of red on the bosom, and follow so carelessly as not to attract notice!”

I was only sure this language was intended for me, by finding there was no other at the moment within hearing; but what it mean, if it had any meaning, I was at a loss to conjecture. I would have questioned the page, notwithstanding the caution not to seem to see or hear, but that individual had already passed on too far, and was about mingling with the noisy crowd.

As I sat thinking the matter over, it occurred to me that I had been mistaken for another person, and that what had been said to me had really been intended for some one else. If this was so indeed, it might lead to a novel adventure, and no one was ever more ready for a novel adventure than myself.

“Look for the blue domino with a single spot of red on the bosom, and follow so carelessly as not to attract notice,” I repeated to myself. “Very well—I think I… Read More