tten this
sad scene in the drama of a demoralized family life; such scenes had
been too often repeated to make any lasting impression.

Madame du Trouffle found Count Ranuzi awaiting her. He came forward with
such a joyous greeting, that she was flattered, and gave him her hand
with a gracious smile. She said triumphantly to herself that the power
of her charms was not subdued, since the handsome and much admired
Ranuzi was surely captivated by them.

The count had pleaded yesterday for an interview, and he had done this
with so mysterious and melancholy a mien, that the gay and sportive
Louise had called him the Knight of Toggenberg, and had asked him
plaintively if he was coming to die at her feet.

"Possibly," he answered, with grave earnestness--"possibly, if you are
cruel enough to refuse the request I prefer."

These words had occupied the thoughts of this vain coquette during the
whole night; she was convinced that Ranuzi, ravished by her beauty,
wished to make her a declaration, and she had been hesitating whether to
reject or encourage him. As he advanced so gracefully and smilingly to
meet her, she resolved to encourage him and make him forget the mockery
of yesterday.

Possibly Ranuzi read this in her glance, but he did not regard it; he
had attained his aim--the interview which he desired. "Madame," said he,
"I come to make honorable amends, and to plead at your feet for pardon."
He bowed on one knee, and looked up beseechingly.

Louise found that his languishing and at the same time glowing eyes were
very beautiful, and she was entirely ready to be gracious, although she
did not know the offence. "Stand up, count," said she, "and let us talk
reasonably together. What have you done, and for what must I forgive
you?"

"You annihilate me with your magnanimity," sighed Ranuzi. "You are
so truly noble as to have forgotten my boldness of yesterday, and you
choose to forget that the poor, imprisoned soldier, intoxicated by your
beauty, carried away by your grace and amiability, has dared to love you
and to confess it. But I swear to you, madame, I will never repeat this
offence. The graceful mockery and keen wit with which you punished me
yesterday has deeply moved me, and I assure you, madame, you have had
more influence over me than any prude with her most eloquent sermon on
virtue could have done. I have seen my crime, and never again will my
lips dare to confess what lives and glows in my heart." He to