He told me that not only Versailles, but all Paris was in a ferment, in
consequence of a revolting, and all but sacrilegious practical joke,
played of on the night before.
The pagoda, as he persisted in calling the palanquin, had been left
standing on the spot where we last saw it. Neither conjuror, nor usher,
nor bearers had ever returned. When the ball closed, and the company at
length retired, the servants who attended to put out the lights, and
secure the doors, found it still there.
It was determined, however, to let it stand where it was until next
morning, by which time, it was conjectured, its owners would send
messengers to remove it.
None arrived. The servants were then ordered to take it away; and its
extraordinary weight, for the first time, reminded them of its forgotten
human occupant. Its door was forced; and, judge what was their disgust,
when they discovered, not a living man, but a corpse! Three or four days
must have passed since the death of the burly man in the Chinese tunic
and painted cap. Some people thought it was a trick designed to insult
the Allies, in whose honor the ball was got up. Others were of opinion
that it was nothing worse than a daring and cynical jocularity which,
shocking as it was, might yet be forgiven to the high spirits and
irrepressible buffoonery of youth.
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