garden of the mansion at which I was passing the evening. The trees,
being partly covered with snow, were outlined indistinctly against the
grayish background formed by a cloudy sky, barely whitened by the
moon. Seen through the medium of that strange atmosphere, they bore a
vague resemblance to spectres carelessly enveloped in their shrouds, a
gigantic image of the famous _Dance of Death_. Then, turning in the
other direction, I could gaze admiringly upon the dance of the living!
a magnificent salon, with walls of silver and gold, with gleaming
chandeliers, and bright with the light of many candles. There the
loveliest, the wealthiest women in Paris, bearers of the proudest
titles, moved hither and thither, fluttered from room to room in
swarms, stately and gorgeous, dazzling with diamonds; flowers on their
heads and breasts, in their hair, scattered over their dresses or
lying in garlands at their feet. Light quiverings of the body,
voluptuous movements, made the laces and gauzes and silks swirl about
their graceful figures. Sparkling glances here and there eclipsed the
lights and the blaze of the diamonds, and fanned the flame of hearts
already burning too brightly. I detected also significant nods of the
head for lovers and repellent attitudes for husbands. The exclamation
of the card-players at every unexpected _coup_, the jingle of gold,
mingled with music and the murmur of conversation; and to put the
finishing touch to the vertigo of that multitude, intoxicated by all
the seductions the world can offer, a perfume-laden atmosphere and
general exaltation acted upon their over-wrought imaginations. Thus,
at my right was the depressing, silent image of death; at my left the
decorous bacchanalia of life; on the one side nature, cold and gloomy,
and in mourning garb; on the other side, man on pleasure bent. And,
standing on the borderland of those two incongruous pictures, which
repeated thousands of times in diverse ways, make Paris the most
entertaining and most philosophical city in the world, I played a