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.
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