I came across this story in a California newspaper, The Weekly Placer Herald, and didn't find it particularly believable. But it was not original to the Herald; the attribution at the end is to the Albany Dutchman, which seems to have been more of a weekly humor publication than a newspaper. Per the Library of Congress's Chronicling America website, it described itself in 1849 as "A weekly newspaper-devoted to fun, literature, good advice, women and other luxuries." I don't have any way to check the attribution at the moment, as the Albany Dutchman doesn't seem to be online, but that fits with my impression that this is a tall tale, not an actual incident. It nonetheless makes a light-hearted ending to my month of masquerades!
In the story, two friends, Bob and Frank, lie to Bob's wife about his having to help a sick uncle. In reality, they are sneaking off to a masquerade ball. While Bob is a married man, Frank is "a roue, and as a matter of course is a great favorite with the ladies—roues always are."
They arrive at the masquerade during the sixth cotillon, which in America at that time was most likely a quadrille rather than a cotillion by any of the term's various meanings. Bob is dressed as Cardinal Woolsey and Frank as a Brigand. They spot a beautiful lady, masked, in the costume of a "lady of Italian extraction". Frank, of course, asks her to dance, and takes every advantage of the closed ballroom hold:
She consented, and in a few moments afterwards the good looking brigand was doing a waltz in a manner that indicated that what such dancing lacked in grace, it made up in hugging.
Things are progressing nicely for Frank, who makes a date to ride with her after the ball, but he has no way to discover her identity. Bob does this for him, sneaking the lady's card case out of her pocket under cover of pulling out her handkerchief. Surprise, surprise: when Frank looks at her card, he discovers that the lady is Bob's wife. Bob isn't happy with this at all, and threatens to kill them both.
Presumably it is the men's friendship, and perhaps Bob's marriage, that end. The story doesn't, really:
The last seen of Bob and his friend, they were rushing down State street, the latter about four feet in advance of Cardinal Woolsey’s stiletto. What became of Mrs. H____ will be known when the Northern mail arrives.
The writing is not exactly O. Henry-quality, alas, and as dance information goes, we can understand only that in Albany in 1855, the waltz could be done scandalously, and some people still called quadrilles cotillons. But it's a cute little twist on the continuing American unease about masquerades.
Oh, and there's a moral, of course:
Moral.—When you go to see a ‘sick uncle,’ take your wife along. Loneliness is very suggestive and leads to more impropriety than Byron’s poems.
Don't lie to your wives, gentlemen; they want to go to the ball, too!
Happy Halloween!
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TRANSCRIPTION
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The Weekly Placer Herald (Auburn, California), July 28, 1855, p. 1.
(Original: PDF - top of center column)
The Way it Ended.
A Masquerade Ball came off at Albany on Tuesday evening last. Among those present were Bob H____ and Frank B____, of this city. Bob is a married gentleman, and owns the fee simple of one of the prettiest wives and babies in the Metropolis. Frank B____ is a bachelor, slightly given to champagne and illicit calico—in other words, Frank is a roue, and as a matter of course is a great favorite with the ladies—roues always are. Bob left town under the plea that a ‘sick uncle’ was dying, and that his services were needed to ‘regulate the will.’
The ball, as we have already stated took place on Tuesday evening last. Among the distinguished visitors who entered the room as the sixth cotillon was being danced, were Bob and his friend Frank—the former disguised as ‘Cardinal Woolsey,’ and the latter as a ‘Brigand.’ Among the ladies present was one whose beauty of contour and delicately small ankles produced an immediate impression on the pair. She wore a mask, and personated some lady of Italian extraction.
‘That’s a killing foot, Bob, isn’t it?’
‘It isn’t anything else; and then what a form—who the deuce can she be?’
‘Can’t say, but I intend to dance with her, or perish in the attempt.’
After the sixth cotillon was finished, Frank crossed the room, drew on a pair of lemon colored kids, ‘doubled up,’ and requested the honor of dancing the next set with the fair unknown. She consented, and in a few moments afterwards the good looking brigand was doing a waltz in a manner that indicated that what such dancing lacked in grace, it made up in hugging.
Having acquitted himself of the waltz, Frank seated his fascinating partner, and once more joined his friend Bob.
‘Charming creature, isn’t she?—and waltzes like an angel, and has all the bewitchingness of a Spanish coquette.’
‘She has evidently made an impression on you, Frank—did you do the same?’
‘I rather think I did—engaged or a ride up the Troy road after the ball is over—if that is not an impression, I don’t know what would be. By the way, how can I find out who she is?’
‘Use strategem—bet me fifty dollars, and I’ll ascertain that fact in twenty minutes.’
‘I’ll do it—now go ahead.’
Bob did so, and in the course of a few minutes returned.
‘Well, what luck, Bob—found out who she is?’
‘Can’t say for certain—but I think I have. While sitting by her side, I drew her handkerchief from her pocket, and with it her card case. There it is; open it on the sly, and see if it contains what you are in search of?’
Frank did as desired, and made a discovery that rather astonished him.
‘Who do you think she is?’
‘Could not even guess.’
‘Read and take on knowledge.’
‘Mrs. Robert H____! My wife, as I’m a sinner. Get me a pistol—I’ll murder you, and then take her life.’
The last seen of Bob and his friend, they were rushing down State street, the latter about four feet in advance of Cardinal Woolsey’s stiletto. What became of Mrs. H____ will be known when the Northern mail arrives.
Moral.—When you go to see a ‘sick uncle,’ take your wife along. Loneliness is very suggestive and leads to more impropriety than Byron’s poems.
Albany Dutchman.
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