Kniaz Viktor Tzakev handed his exquisitely decorated invitation to the footman on the door of the Great Ballroom, his mouth turned into a wide smile under the large, curved nose of the mask. The footman, dressed elegantly in rich blue satin, waved the Duke in, and he entered the room, filled with music and laughter and conversation, eyes taking in the other guests and their lavish, glittering, and expensive costumes. Not only were the people dressed as gods, but the surroundings themselves were far beyond what he had ever seen before, but then again, there were few Masquerades in Russia, and few in France were held by such an exuberant society figurehead.
He carefully sided-stepped a somewhat distracted couple, wheeling around wildly to the music, uproarious in their laughter, and headed on, past the fountain that, some how had been constructed in the centre of the large room. Such decadence was unheard of at home, and Sergius was certain that few back in Mínsk would believe his tales of life at the French court. Then again, he would not be going back to Mínsk to attempt to tell anyone, so it was a mute point.
He took a wine-glass from a tray carried by an exotically dressed servant of the Royal Household, and sipped it appreciatively. This was living! This was how he deserved to live, in comfort, in warmth, admired and safe, and without idiot peasants stirred up by bored nationalists. Remembering, he snorted into his glass, causing two of the other guests, elegantly dressed and obviously quite beautiful young women, to turn around and look at him, no doubt with questioning looks under their masks. "Seulement une toux, Mademoiselles ." He explains to them, French near-flawless, as he continues on his way, moving towards the balconies open onto the night air, filled with the scent of night roses and late flowering jasmine.