FranceXReader Request: Masquerade Magic

I stepped through the wide double doors into a world of color and light.  The Marquis' annual Masquerade Ball.  It was like stepping into a storybook.  All about me, glittering, shimmering costumes whirled and flashed in the bright candlelight.  Not a square inch of the entire grand ballroom was dark.
    
I looked down from the large staircase, the plush red velvet coating the walkway, the banisters polished so bright that I could see my masked reflection in them.  Normally, at such a grand event, one's name and title would be announced upon arrival.  But, since this was a masquerade, no one was to know who the other was, so all entered with no introduction.
  
I loved the warm and casual feel of the masked ball.  Everyone was so relaxed and candid.  Their usual façades of cool detachment and ceremonious politeness had faded into musical, merry laughter and dancing.  It appears one only show their true colors when they have a mask to hide behind.
  
I walked down the stairs as poised as I would normally at a high society party.  It almost felt satirical that I held my posture so straight at such a relaxed and welcoming event.  As soon as my slippered feet touched the gleaming wooden floor, I let my limbs relax and fell to laughing at the wonderful creatures I saw dancing and capering about.  I saw satyrs, fairies, fools, kings, suns, moons, stars, butterflies, leopards, devils, angels, birds, skeletons, dryads, naiads, and many fantastical creatures that I had never seen before.
  
I was drunk on the beauty of it all:  the sound of genuine laughter, the smell of wine, the warmth of the air, the swish of satin against my legs, the flash and twirl of myriads of masks.  I wanted to take it all in, the magic of the Masquerade.  I felt someone tug at my arm, a green and blue mermaid with a scaled mask in her white-gloved hand smiled at me.  Something about the set of her mouth and the tip of her nose were familiar…

"Veronique!"  I exclaimed as I embraced my closest friend.  Her beautiful blonde hair had been put up becomingly in a complex twist of braids and knots; it had all the appearance of golden rope.  Her eyes, obscured by her turquoise mask, glittered with joy.
  
"C'est maginifique, non?"she squealed with delight, gazing at all of the beautiful dresses and costumes. [1]

"Oui," I replied, breathless at the wonder I was a part of.  [2]This was our first Masquerade.  It had taken months of begging, pleading, and wheedling to land us the honor of attending.  We were quite easily two of the youngest attending, but I saw many masques that looked to be around our age, maybe a few years older than us.  Veronique adjusted the short, taffeta train behind her short dress--which barely covered her knees--that was her tail.
  
At that moment, a knight in gleaming armor walked forward and lifted his helm.  It was Veronique's papa!
  
"Êtes-vous les filles profiter vous-mêmes?" he asked with a playful grin.  [3]

"Oui, papa!" [4]

"Oui, monsieur!" we chimed with joy.  [5]

"Très bien, filles,"  Monsieur Bonnet placed his helm back once again, and clanked off to join Madame Bonnet on the dance floor.  [6]
  
We erupted in laughter at Monsieur Bonnet's comic costume as he waddled slowly away.  Never before had we laughed so long and so loud.  Our sides hurt, we could barely remain standing, and we had tears streaming down our cheeks.  When our fit of laughter finally died down, we walked over to the powder room to clean ourselves up.
  
I undid the ties of my leafy-green mask and worked to reapply the pale white powder to my tear-streaked cheeks.  A small fog of white surrounded my face as I worked to fix what my tears had erased.  I took the opportunity to inspect my costume in the full-length looking glass of the powder room.
  
I was dressed as Gaia, Mother Earth from Greek legends.  My thin, square-cut white, mid-shin length satin dress with ivy branches around my waist and twining up by bare arms looked as neat and beautiful as when I had put it on.  My (h/c) hair was done in a single, long plait entwined with fresh wild flowers.  My green dancing slippers glittered beautifully with more ivy vines twining from my ankles up to my knees.
   
I smiled with satisfaction at my appearance.  I replaced my mask, tying the strings behind my head, and left with Veronique to return to the festivities.  We entered right away to join the capering dances.  The string quartet played lively reels and dances that were as enthralling as the masques that danced to them.
  
There was no shortage of dancing partners as we joined the merry, wild dance.  The man with whom I was dancing did not appear to have a costume, per say.  He was wearing a nice, baby blue jacket with a frilled cravat, knee length trousers with stockings, black dancing shoes, and a large hat with a rather ridiculous white feather stuck in it.  It was the dress of a well-to-do gentleman of society.  The only reason I dared call it a costume was because he had placed a simple white mask over his face.  He was quite a bit taller than me, but not so much that I had difficulty dancing with him.  His long blonde hair—tied back in a pink ribbon at the nape of his neck—bounced and bobbed as he led me through the dance.  I laughed and smiled as I had never before as we skipped and bounded across the dance hall.
  
When the song ended, my partner took my hand in his and brought it delicately to his lips.  I felt my pulse speed as his warm, gentle lips, and the slightest bit of stubble, brushed against my skin.
  
"Vous êtes un merveilleux danseur, jeunes mademoiselle," he said in a deep, lyrical voice.  [7]

"Merci, monsieur," I responded politely back.  [8]

"Puis-je demander votre nom?"  His eyes, though concealed partially by his mask, glittered genteelly.  [9]

"Ah, ah!" I teased.  "Je ne peux pas vous dire, c'est une mascarade. Personne ne peut savoir qui sont les autres."  [10]
   
"Ah, Mais nous ne nous connaissions pas avant aujourd'hui," he retorted in a friendly manner.  "Nous sommes toujours des inconnus à l'autre étant donné que nous ne pouvons pas voir l'un de l'autre les visages. Un nom ne sera pas renoncer à notre identité."  [11]

I smiled at the wit of this man.  I proffered my hand in a business-like manner: palm down, to be kissed again.  "Mon nom est ________."  [12]

My partner held my hand delicately once again to his lips.  I felt the fuzz on his chin tickle it once again.  "Et mon nom est François Bonnefoy."  [13]
  
We did not separate for the rest of the evening.  We talked and laughed and ate and drank as though we had known each other for years.  He was a very charming and witty character, very well-versed in politics as well as poetry.  He told me he aspired to be one because he believed everyone deserved to have words of love and beauty in their lives.  I found his goals very humanitarian and, frankly, rather fetching.
  
Most men about his age I had spoken with talked of nothing but hunting and billiards and men's talk, nothing of interest to me.  François was different.  He spoke of things that interested me, and listen and conversed with me on topics I was knowledgeable of.  His laughter was bright and merry, lighting up whatever corner we conversed in.
  
Time flew swiftly and before I knew it, the grand clock at the head of the grandiose fireplace was striking midnight in its deep, resonate voice, signaling the eventual end to the evening's magical night of color and honesty.  My face fell as I heard it.  I did not remember at what time Papa said we would leave, but I was quite sure it would be soon.
  
Françoise noticed the change in my mood almost immediately.  He looked at me with a concern peeping through his mask.  "Pourquoi si triste mon ami?" [14]

I sighed quietly, absentmindedly plucking a small rosebud from my braid and twirling it in my fingers.  "Oh, j'ai quitter bientôt. Mais je ne veux pas que ce soir à jamais." [15]

François took the little rosebud from my fingers and placed it gently behind my ear, brushing a few stray strands back as well.  His hand was soft and moved across my cheek as though it were of the most fragile and precious porcelain.
  
"Qu'on ne nous fasse pas perdre tout le temps qu'il nous reste," he spoke reverently, as if we were in a cathedral. [16]

He took my hand once again and led me out onto the middle of the dance floor.  The quartet was playing a lilting, slow waltz.  François pulled himself close to me as he carefully held my waist and hand.  He smelled faintly of rosewater.  It suited him nicely.
  
One, two, three.  One, two, three.  One, two, three.  The hypnotic waves of the dance had us moving chest to chest, slowly and with feeling.  I had just met this man, yet I loathed the thought of leaving him as though he were my childhood bosom friend.  I looked at his face, half-hidden by the simple mask he wore.  I suddenly had the desire to break the rules of the Masquerade: I wanted to see his whole face.

I stopped dancing and removed my hand from François' and reached up to his cheek where the bottom of the snowy mask rested.  He looked a bit surprised at me as I lifted up the small, cloth mask.  It was like gazing on the face of Eros: strong jaws and a low brow, but a soft, round and mild expression.  His eyes were what captured me the most.  Beneath the mask, they could be seen, but not distinctly.  Uncovered, they were two gloriously deep azure pools.  I wanted to dive within them and search their depths.
  
I felt a hand go to the back of my head, and begin to untie the string that held up my mask.  I felt the mask lifted delicately away from my face.  A cool breeze grazed my face, reviving my cheeks and forehead that had been hidden away all night.  François' face grew soft.  His whole body seemed to melt.  His hand caressed my cheek once more, sending shivers of delight up my spine.
  
"Tellement belle," he whispered as he leaned forward towards me.  [17]  Like a magnet, my face drew towards his, and I felt my eyes close.  My body knew that something beautiful and magical was coming, even if I didn't.
  
Then, I felt his lips touch mine.  The touch was very light, but I felt my stomach flutter and my palms tingle at that downy soft caress.  They came back again, this time pressing against mine slightly harder, their soft, smooth stokes awakening every sense in my body, yet putting my consciousness into a dream-like state.
  
I felt my lips push back hesitantly against his, as though they had gained a mind of their own.  They wanted to be touched, to be petted more.  François' lips continued to caress mine, stroking them gently and slowly, with absolutely no rush or hurry, and mine learned to stroke his back.
  
I realized that I hadn't been breathing when my head began to pound and my lungs began to ache, and reluctantly pulled away to gasp for air.  I suddenly became aware that others could have seen our sudden and intimate display of affection.  My cheeks flushed red as my head swiveled around, looking to see if we had any onlookers.  However, I noticed that not one eye was trained upon us.  

Such was the magic of the Masquerade.  In the center of the dance floor, all eyes were still fixated upon the flash and twirl of color and light.  We were but small, ordinary neutral tones beneath the bold reds and golds and violets.  I placed my arms about François' neck and embraced him, holding my head to his heart.  He, in turn, wrapped his strong, warm arms around me and lightly kissed the top of my head.
  
Such is the magic of the Masquerade.  Behind a mask, one is willing to reveal one's true colors.