seen in Innsbruck, and setting off to perfection the dazzling lustre of
her yellow curls, the tiara of diamonds.

After a final survey of herself in the glass, she slipped on her cloak,
and stole softly out to join her intimate friend, the Countess Linitz,
who was also going to the ball. All things so far had worked wonderfully
well; not even a servant suspected her. In order to avoid trusting her
secret to anyone in the house, she had employed a stranger to hire an
elegant carriage, which was in waiting for her at a discreet distance
from the front door. The ball at which Madame Mildau soon arrived with
her friend was much more to her liking than the one to which she had
been previously escorted by her husband. The music was more harmonious,
the conversation more amiable, the dresses more elaborate, and, what
was more important than all, Madame Mildau's success was even more
instantaneous and complete. The whole room--host, guests, musicians,
even waiters--one and all were literally dumbfounded at the
extraordinary beauty of her face and costume, to say nothing of her
jewels. Such an entrancing spectacle was without parallel in a ballroom
in Innsbruck; and when she left, before the entertainment was over, all
the life, the light, the gaiety went with her.

But it was at the third ball, to which the same equipage surreptitiously
bore her, that Madame Mildau's enjoyment and triumphs reached their
zenith; and it was only towards the close of that entertainment--when
she felt, by that revelation of instinct which never deceives women on
similar occasions, that it was time to depart; that the brilliancy of
her eyes, no less than the beauty of her dress, was fading; that her
lips, parched with fatigue, had lost that humid red which rendered them
so pretty and inviting, and that the dust had taken the beautiful gloss
off her hair--that she experienced, for the first time, a sentiment of
uneasiness in reviewing the rashness of her conduct. How was it
possible, she asked herself, to prevent a casual acquaintance--her
friends she could warn--letting out in conversation before her husband
that she had been to these balls. And supposing he thus got to know of
her deceit, what then?

This idea--the idea of being found out--with all its consequences, rose
before her. Her exhausted imagination could find nothing to oppose it,
nothing to relieve the feeling of depression which took possession of
her, and she almost felt remorse whe