The dancing-room was a cheerful sight. Girls and young married women
flew round over the polished floor on the arms of well-dressed men,
mostly officers, spinning and whirling round to Offenbach's dance
music, led with bacchanalian fire by a small but distinguished
conductor from a red covered platform. It was exciting to watch the
rows of couples as they waltzed wildly round, and to the dazzled
sight it seemed like a glimpse in a dream into Mohammed's Paradise;
as if in his wonderful mirror he had reflected the slim figures of
the dancers, with their flashing blue or black eyes, their burning
cheeks, their parted lips, their bosoms rising and falling, the
scene moving in ever-changing perspective; a sight gay and wonderful
as the freakish games of a crowd of elves.
The untiring energy of the dancers was wonderful. During the pauses
a girl could hardly sit for a moment to rest, but a strong arm would
whirl her away again in the vortex of the dance. A few old gentlemen
stood in the recesses of the windows and in the doorways, with the
quiet enjoyment of those who look on, and among them was Wilhelm
Eynhardt. He stood with his back against a window-frame, almost
enveloped in the flowing red silk curtain, so that scarcely any one
noticed him.
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