in the
midst of her mirth and joyousness; the harsh voice was often so loud
that Louise was bewildered by it, and could not hear the ring of joy
and rapture which surrounded her. She knew that this pale spectre
was conscience; press it down as she would, the busy devil was ever
mounting, mounting. But she would not listen, she rushed madly on after
new distractions, new pleasures; she quenched the warning voice under
shouts of mirth and levity; she threw herself in the arms of folly and
worldly pleasures, and then for long months she escaped this threatening
phantom, which, with raised finger, stood behind her, which seemed
to chase her, and from which she ever fled to new sins and new guilt.
Sometimes she had a feeling as if Death held her in his arms, and turned
her round in a wild and rapid dance, not regarding her prayers, or her
panting, gasping breath; she would, oh how gladly, have rested; gladly
have laid down in some dark and quiet corner, away from this wild
gayety. But she could not escape from those mysterious arms which held
her captive in their iron clasp, which rushed onward with her in the
death-dance of sin. She must go onward, ever onward, in this career of
vice; she must ever again seek intoxication in the opium of sin, to save
herself from the barren, colorless nothingness which awaited her; from
that worst of all evils, the weariness with which the old coquette
paints the terrible future, in which even she can no longer please; in
which old age with a cruel hand sweeps away the flowers from the hair
and the crimson from the cheek, and points out to the mocking world the
wrinkles on the brow and the ashes in the hair.

"It is cold here," said Louise, shuddering, and springing up quickly
from the grass-plot--"it is cold here, and lonely; I will return to the
saloon. Perhaps--"

Hasty steps drew near, and a voice whispered her name. Madame du
Trouffle drew back, and a glowing blush suffused her cheek, and as she
advanced from the grotto she was again the gay, imperious coquette--the
beautiful woman, with the cloudless brow and the sparkling eyes,
which seemed never to have been over-shadowed by tears. The
conscience-stricken, self-accusing mother was again the worldly-wise
coquette.

Her name was called the second time, and her heart trembled, she knew
not if with joy or horror.

"For God's sake, why have you dared to seek me here? Do you not know
that my husband may return at any moment?"

"You