Then suddenly he started as one just awakening from a dream; he drew his hand over his brow, looked confusedly around him, and said: "Grand Dieu! here I have been talking to you of myself for two hours! It is the most stupid way of passing one's time, and I promise you it shall not happen again."

With these words he rose, took up his hat, and left.

M. Moriaz paced the floor for some moments, his hands behind his back; presently he said: "This diable of a man has strangely moved me. One thing alone spoils his story for me—that is the gun. A man who once has drunk will drink again; one who has invented will invent again. No man in the world ever remained satisfied with his first gun."

"I beg of you, monsieur," cried Mlle. Moiseney, "could you not speak to the Minister of War about adopting the Larinski musket?"

"Are you your country's enemy?" he asked. "Do you wish its destruction? Have you sworn that after Alsace we must lose Champagne?"

"I am perfectly sure," she replied, mounting on her high horse, "that the Larinski musket is a chef-d'oeuvre, and I would pledge my life that he who invented it is a man of genius."

"If you would pledge your word of honour to that, mademoiselle," he replied, making her a profound bow, "you may well feel assured that the French Government would not hesitate a moment."

Mlle. Moriaz took no part in this conversation. Her face slightly contracted, buried in her thoughts as in a solitude inaccessible to earthly sounds, her cheek resting in the palm of her left hand, she held in her right hand a paper-cutter, and she kept pricking the point into one of the grooves of the table on which her elbow rested, while her half-closed eyes were fixed on a knot of the mahogany. She saw in this knot the Isthmus of Panama, San Francisco, the angelic countenance of the beautiful Polish woman who had given birth to Count Abel Larinski; she saw there also fields of snow, ambuscades, retreats more glorious than victories, and, beyond all else, the bursting of a gun and of a man's heart.

She arose, and saluted her father without a word. In crossing the salon she perceived that M. Larinski had forgotten a book he had left on the piano when he came in. She opened the volume; he had written his name on the top of the first page, and Antoinette recognised the handwriting of the note.

Shut up in her own room, while taking down and combing her hair, her imagination long wandered through California and Poland. She compared M. Larinski with all the other men she ever had known, and she concluded that he resembled none of them. And it was he who had written: "I arrived in this village disgusted with life, sorrowful and so weary that I longed to die. I saw you pass by, and I know not what mysterious virtue entered into me. I will live."

It seemed to her that for long years she had been seeking some one, and that she had done well to come to the Engadine, because here she had found the object of her search.



CHAPTER III

Two, three, four days passed without Count Larinski reappearing at the Hotel Badrutt, where every evening he was expected. This prolonged absence keenly affected Mlle. Moriaz. She sought an explanation thereof; the search occupied part of her days, and troubled her sleep. She had too much character not to conceal her trouble and anxiety. Those about her had not the least suspicion that she asked herself a hundred times in the twenty-four hours: "Why does he not come? will he never come again? is it a fixed resolution? Does he blame us for drawing out, by our questions, the secret of his life? or does he suspect that I have discovered him to be the writer of the anonymous letter? Will he leave Engadine without bidding us good-bye? Perhaps he has already gone, and we shall never see him again." This thought caused Mlle. Moriaz a heart-burn that she had never before experienced. Her day had come; her heart was no longer free: the bird had allowed itself to be caught.

Mlle. Moiseney said to her one evening: "It seems certain to me that we never shall see Count Larinski again."

She replied in an almost indifferent tone, "No doubt he has found people at Cellarina, or elsewhere, who are more entertaining than we."

"You mean to say," said Mlle. Moiseney, "that M. Moriaz and the bezique has frightened him away. I would not for worlds speak ill of your father; he has all the good qualities imaginable, except a certain delicacy of sentiment, which is not to be learned in dealing with acids. Think of condemning a Count Larinski to play bezique! There are some things that your father does not and never will understand."

M. Moriaz had entered meanwhile. "Please oblige me by explaining what it is that I do not understand," said he to Mlle. Moiseney.

She replied with some embarrassment, "You do not understand, monsieur, that certain visits were a charming diversion to us, and that now we miss them."

"And do you think that I do not miss them? It has been four days since I have had a game of cards. But how can it be helped? Poles are fickle—more fools they who trust them."

"It may be simply that M. Larinski has been ill," interrupted Antoinette, with perfect tranquility. "I think, father, that it would be right for us to make inquiries."

The following day M. Moriaz went to Cellarina. He brought back word that M. Larinski had gone on a walking-excursion through the mountains; that he had started out with the intention of climbing to the summit of Piz-Morteratsch, and of attempting the still more difficult ascent of Piz-Roseg. Mlle. Moriaz found it hard to decide whether this news was good or bad news. All depended on what point of view was taken, and she changed hers every hour.

Since his mishap, M. Moriaz had become less rash than formerly. Experience had taught him that there are treacherous rocks that can be climbed without much difficulty, but from which it is impossible to descend—rocks exposing one to the danger of ending one's days in their midst, if there is no Pole near at hand. Certain truths stamp themselves indelibly on the mind; so M. Moriaz never ventured again on the mountains without being attended by a guide, who received orders from Antoinette not to leave him, and not to let him expose himself. One day he came in later than usual, and his daughter reproached him, with some vivacity, for the continual anxiety he caused her. "The glaciers and precipices will end by giving me the nightmare," she said to him.

"Pray on whose account, my dear?" he playfully rejoined. "I assure you the ascent that I have just made was neither more difficult nor more dangerous than that of Montmartre, nor of the Sannois Hill, and as to glaciers, I have firmly resolved to keep shy of them. I have passed the age of prowess. My guide has been making me tremble by relating the dangers to which he was exposed in 1864 on Morteratsch, where he had accompanied Professor Tyndall and another English tourist. They were all swept away by an avalanche. Attached to the same rope, they went down with the snow. A fall of three hundred metres! They would have been lost, if, through the presence of mind of one of the guides, they had not succeeded in stopping themselves two feet from a frightful precipice, which was about to swallow them up. I am a father, and I do not despise life. Let him ascend Morteratsch who likes! I wish our friend Larinski had made the descent safe and sound. If he has met an avalanche on the way, he will invent no more guns."

Antoinette was no longer mistress of her nerves: during the entire evening she was so preoccupied that M. Moriaz could not fail to notice it; but he had no suspicion of the cause. He was profoundly versed in qualitative and quantitative analysis, but less skilled in the analysis of his daughter's heart. "How pale you are!" he said to her. "Are you not well? You are cold.—Pray, Mlle. Moiseney, make yourself useful and prepare her a mulled egg; you know I do not permit her to be sick."

It was not the mulled egg that restored Mlle. Moriaz's color. The next morning as she was giving a drawing lesson to her protegee, Count Abel was announced. She trembled; the blood rose in her cheeks, and she could not conceal her agitation from the penetrating gaze of the audacious charmer. It might easily be seen that he had just descended from where the eagles themselves seldom ascend. His face was weather-beaten by the ice and snow. He had successfully accomplished the double ascent, of which he was compelled to give an account. In descending from Morteratsch he had been overtaken by a storm, and had come very near never again seeing the valley or Mlle. Moriaz. He owed his life to the presence of mind and courage of his guide, on whom he could not bestow sufficient praise.

While he modestly narrated his exploits, Antoinette had dismissed her pupil. He seemed embarrassed by the tete-a-tete which, nevertheless, he had sought. He rose, saying: "I regret not being able to see M. Moriaz; I came to bid him farewell. I leave this evening."

She summoned courage and replied: "You did well to come; you left a volume of Shakespeare—here it is." Then drawing from her notebook a paper—"I have still another restitution to make to you. I have had the misfortune to discover that it was you who wrote this letter."

With these words she handed him the anonymous note. He changed countenance, and it was now his turn to grow red. "Who can prove to you," he demanded, "that I am the author of this offence, or rather crime?"

"Every bad case may be denied, but do not you deny."

After a moment's silence, he replied: "I will not lie, I am not capable of lying. Yes, I am the guilty one; I confess it with sorrow, because you are offended by my audacity."

"I never liked madrigals, either in prose or verse, signed or anonymous," she returned, rather dryly.

He exclaimed, "You took this letter for a madrigal?" Then, having reread it, he deliberately tore it up, throwing the pieces into the fireplace, and added, smiling: "It certainly lacked common-sense; he who wrote it is a fool, and I have nothing to say in his defence."

Crossing her hands on her breast, and uplifting to him her brown eyes, that were as proud as gentle, she softly murmured, "What more?"

"I came to Chur," he replied, "I entered a church, I there saw a fair unknown, and I forgot myself in gazing at her. That evening I saw her again; she was walking in a garden where there was music, and this music of harps and violins was grateful to me. I said within myself: 'What a thing is the heart of man! The woman who has passed me by without seeing me does not know me, will never know of my existence; I am ignorant of even her name, and I wish to remain so, but I am conscious that she exists, and I am glad, content, almost happy. She will be for me the fair unknown; she cannot prevent me from remembering her. I will think sometimes of the fair unknown of Chur.'"

"Very good," said she, "but this does not explain the letter."

"We are coming to that," he continued. "I was seated in a copse, by the roadside. I had the blues—was profoundly weary; there are times when life weighs on me like a torturing burden. I thought of disappointed expectations, of dissipated illusions, of the bitterness of my youth and of my future. You passed by on the road, and I said to myself, 'There is good in life, because of such encounters, in which we catch renewed glimpses of what was once pleasant for us to see.'"

"And the note?" she asked again, in a dreamy tone.

He went on: "I never was a philosopher; wisdom consists in performing only useful actions, and I was born with a taste for the useless. That evening I saw you climb a hill, in order to gather some flowers; the hill was steep and you could not reach the flowers. I gathered them for you, and, in sending my bouquet, I could not resist the temptation of adding a word. 'Before doing penance,' I said to myself, 'let me commit this one folly; it shall be the last.' We always flatter ourselves that each folly will be our last. The unfortunate note had scarcely gone, when I regretted having sent it; I would have given much to have had it back; I felt all its impropriety; I have dealt justly by it in tearing it to pieces. My only excuse was my firm resolution not to meet you, not to make your acquaintance. Chance ordered otherwise: I was presented to you, you know by whom, and how; I ended by coming here every evening, but I rebelled against my own weakness, I condemned myself to absence for a few days, so as to break a dangerous habit, and, thank God! I have broken my chain."

She lightly tapped the floor with the tip of her foot, and demanded with the air of a queen recalling a subject to his allegiance, "Are you to be believed?"

He had spoken in a half-serious, half-jesting tone, tinged with the playful melancholy that was natural to him. He changed countenance, his face flushed, and he cried out abruptly, "I regained my strength and will on the summit of Morteratsch, and I only return to bid you farewell, and to give you the assurance that I never will see you again."

"It is a strange case," she replied; "but I pardon you, on condition that you do not execute your threat. You are resolved to be wise; the wise avoid extremes. You will remember that you have friends in Paris. My father has many connections; if we can be of service to you in any way—"

He did not permit her to finish, and responded proudly: "I thank you, with all my heart. I have sworn to be under obligations to none but myself."

"Very well," she replied, "you will visit us for our pleasure. In a month we shall be at Cormeilles."

He shook his head in sign of refusal. She looked fixedly at him, and said, "It must be so."

This look, these words, sent to Count Abel's brain such a thrill of joy and of hope that for a moment he thought he had betrayed himself. He nearly fell on his knees before Mlle. Moriaz, but, speedily mastering his emotions, he bowed gravely, casting down his eyes. She herself immediately resumed her usual voice and manner, and questioned him on his journey. He told her, in reply, that he proposed to go by the route of Soleure, and to stay there a day in order to visit in Gurzelengasse the house where Kosciuszko, the greatest of Poles, had died. He had thought of this pilgrimage for a long time. He added: "Still another useless action. Ah! when shall I improve?"

"Don't improve too much," she said, smiling. And then he went away.

M. Moriaz returned to the hotel about noon: his guide being engaged elsewhere, he had taken only a short ramble. After breakfast his daughter proposed to him that he should go down with her to the banks of the lake. They made the descent, which is not difficult. This pretty piece of water, that has been falsely accused of resembling a shaving-dish, is said to be not less than a mile in length. When the father and daughter reached the entrance of the woods that pedestrians pass through in going to Pontresina, they seated themselves on the grass at the foot of a larch. They remained some time silent. Antoinette watched the cows grazing, and stroked the smooth, glossy leaves of a yellow gentian with the end of her parasol. M. Moriaz busied himself with neither the cows nor the yellow gentian—he thought of M. Camille Langis, and felt more than a little guilty in that quarter; he had not written to him, having nothing satisfactory to tell him. He could see the young man waiting in vain, at the Hotel Steinbock. To pass a fortnight at Chur is a torture that the most robust constitution scarcely can endure, and it is an increased torture to watch every evening and every morning for a letter that never comes. M. Moriaz resolved to open hostilities, to begin a new assault on the impregnable place. He was seeking in his mind for a beginning for his first phrase. He had just found it, when suddenly Antoinette said to him, in a low, agitated, but distinct voice: "I have a question for you. What would you think if I should some day marry M. Abel Larinski?"

M. Moriaz started up, and his cane, slipping from his hand, rolled to the bottom of the declivity. He looked at his daughter, and said to her: "I beg of you to repeat what you just said to me. I fear I have misunderstood you."

She answered in a firmer voice, "I am curious to know what you would think if I should marry, some day or other, Count Larinski."

He was startled, thunderstruck. He never had foreseen that such a catastrophe could occur, nor had the least suspicion that anything had passed between his daughter and M. Larinski. Of all the ideas that had suggested themselves to him, this seemed the least admissible, the most improbable and ridiculous. After a long silence, he said to Antoinette, "You want to frighten me—this is not serious."

"Do you dislike M. Larinski?" she asked.

"Certainly not; I by no means dislike him. He has good manners, he speaks well, and I must acknowledge that he had a very graceful way of taking me from off my rock, where I should still be had it not been for him. I am grateful to him for it; but, from that to giving him my daughter, there is a wide margin. If he wanted me to give him a medal he should have it."

"Let us talk seriously," said she. "What objections have you to make?"

"First, M. Larinski is a stranger, and I mistrust strangers. Then, I know him but slightly. I naturally demand additional information. Finally, I own that the state of his affairs—"

"Ah! that is the main point," she interrupted. "He is poor; that is his crime, which he has not disguised. How differently we think! I have some fortune; its only advantage that I can see is that it makes me free to marry the man I esteem, though he be poor."

"And perhaps a little because of that very reason," interrupted M. Moriaz, in his turn. "Come, I entreat you, let me explain the anxieties arising from my miserable good sense. M. Larinski has related his history to us. Frankly, do you not think that it is rather that—what shall I say—of an adventurer? The word shocks you—I take it back—but you must admit that this Pole belongs to the—ambulatory family."

"Or family of heroes," she replied.

"That is it, of wandering heroes. I wish all manner of good to heroes, although I never have clearly discovered their use. At all events, I am not sure that they are the best qualified men in the world to make a wife happy, and I intend that my daughter shall be happy."

"You are not convinced as I am that M. Larinski has a superior mind, and a heart of gold?"

"A heart of gold! I should be glad to believe it. I have no reason to doubt it; but many very skilful persons are deceived by false jewellery. Ah! my dear, if you were better versed in chemistry, you would know how easy it is to manufacture a false trinket. Formerly, after having cleaned the piece to be gilded, a gold amalgam was applied. Now, the brass or copper trinket is steeped in a solution of perchloride of gold and bicarbonate of potash, and in less than a minute the thing is accomplished. It is called gilding by immersion. There is another process in which galvanism—But let us admit that M. Larinski's heart is real gold. In the purest gold there is usually some alloy, to dispense with which resort must be had to the cupel. Do you not know what a cupel is? It is a small capsule or cup of a porous substance, used in the refining process, and possessing the property of absorbing the fused oxides and retaining the refined metal. What is the proportion of lead or of gold ore in M. Larinski's heart? Neither you nor I know."

She was no longer listening; her chin in her hand, her glances wandered over the glade. He touched her arm gently to rouse her, and said: "It is all over? You love him?"

"Why will you make me say so?" she replied, blushing.

"And he has declared himself? He has dared——"

"He has dared nothing. Ah! how little you know him! If you were to offer me to him, his pride would say no, and I would have to go down on my knees to get the better of his refusal."

"We will say, at once, that he is unique, that he is a marvel, that there is not a second Pole like him; the mould has been broken. And yet are you sure that he loves you?"

She replied by a motion of the head.

"I should confess," he resumed, "that the passion that is called the grand passion is for me a sealed letter, the mystery of mysteries. I am completely ignorant of it. Yet that did not prevent my marrying, and making a choice that brought me great happiness. Your method is different, and I must believe that you have yielded to an irresistible force. It seems to me, however, that resistance can always be made. You have will, character—"

She interrupted him, murmuring, "It is either he or no one."

"Oh! if it comes to that," he continued, "you are of age, and mistress of your actions; there is nothing for me but to submit. Still, it will be painful to you, I like to believe, to marry in opposition to my wishes."

"Do you doubt it? I am willing not to marry."

"Bad solution! It is worse than the other. Let us come to terms. The positive has its place only in science. It is absolutely true that borax is a salt composed of boracic acid and soda. Beyond such facts all is uncertain. Does this happy man surmise the sentiments he has inspired?"

"I tell you that you do not know him? Do you take him for a coxcomb? When he came this morning to announce his departure, his serious intention was to bid us an eternal farewell, and never to see me again."

"A most excellent idea that," sighed M. Moriaz. "Unfortunately, you represented to him that it took but two hours to go from Paris to Cormeilles."

"I had trouble to persuade him of it."

"Well, since the matter stands thus, nothing is yet lost. You know, my dear, that my physician advised me to beware of abrupt transitions, and not to change too suddenly from the keen air of Engadine to the heavy atmosphere of the plains. On leaving Saint Moritz, we will descend five hundred metres lower, and remain three weeks at Churwalden; consequently, we will not be in Paris for a month. You will employ this month in somewhat calming your imagination. It is very easy for it to become excited in these mountain-holes, without taking into account the wearisomeness of hotel-life. From the very day after our arrival you took a dislike to the paper in our little salon, and its squares, I confess, are very ugly. In every square, a thrush stretching out its neck to peck a currant. Two hundred thrushes and two hundred currants—it was enough to weary you to death. Suddenly there appears a Pole—"

"The thrushes had nothing to do with it," she replied, smiling. "A month hence I shall say as I do to-day. 'It is either he or no one.' And you shall choose."

"Do not repeat that formula, I beg. Fixed resolves are the prison-house of the will. Promise me to reflect; reflection is an excellent thing. One thing more—grant me in advance what I am going to ask you."

"It is granted."

"You have a godmother—"

"Ah! now we are coming to the point," she added.

"You cannot deny that Mme. De Lorcy is a woman of the world, a woman of good sense, a woman of experience, who is deeply interested in your welfare—"

"And who has decided from time immemorial, that I can only be happy on condition that I marry her nephew, M. Camille Langis."

"Well, I admit that she is partial. That is no reason why we should not send her our Pole. She will inspect him, she will tell us her opinion; it will be a new element in the argument."

"Ah! I know her opinion without asking it. This woman of experience and good sense is incapable of recognising merit in a man who is sufficiently impertinent to make Mlle. Moriaz love him, without having at least fifty thousand livres a year to offer her."

"What does that matter? We will let her speak—we need not question her, an oracle; but she knows false jewellery. If she discover—"

"I would require proofs," she interrupted, quickly.

"And if she furnish them?"

She was silent an instant, then she said: "Let it be so; do as you please."

With these words they ended the conversation; then arose, and retook the road to Saint Moritz. M. Moriaz scarcely had reached there, when he entered a carriage to drive to Cellarina, provided with a portfolio given him by Antoinette. He found M. Larinski busy strapping his trunks, and waiting for the mail-coach that made the journey between Samaden and Chur by the Col du Julier.

M. Moriaz expressed his regret at having missed his visit, and asked if he would consent to charge himself with a commission for his daughter, who desired to send to her godmother, Mme. De Lorcy, a sketch of Saint Moritz.

"Cheerfully," coldly replied Count Abel, and he promised, so soon as he reached Paris, to send the portfolio to Maisons Lafitte.

"Do better than that," rejoined M. Moriaz, "and carry your good-nature so far as to take it yourself to its address. Mme. de Lorcy is an amiable woman, who will be charmed to make your acquaintance, and hear from you of us."

The count bowed with a submissive air. There was so little ardour in this submission that M. Moriaz queried if his daughter had not been dreaming, if M. Larinski was as much in love with her as she fancied. He had not read the anonymous letter; Antoinette had refrained from even mentioning it to him.

He was returning to Saint Moritz, when he met midway a pedestrian, who, lost in thought, neither looked at him nor recognised him. M. Moriaz ordered the coachman to stop, sprang out of the carriage, went up to the traveller whom he seized by both shoulders, exclaiming:

"What, you! you again! I can go nowhere in Grisons without meeting you. I ask as I did at Chur, 'Where do you come from?'"

"Did you think I would stay there forever?" rejoined M. Camille Langis, reproachfully. "You have not kept your word, you have forgotten me; you did not write to me. I am tired of waiting, so here I am."

"And where are you going?"

"To the Hotel Badrutt, to plead my own cause, because my advocate has failed me."

"Ah! you have chosen an excellent time," cried M. Moriaz; "you have a real genius for arriving in season. Go, hurry, plead, moan, weep, entreat; you will be well received; you can come and tell me all about it."

"What do you mean?" asked Camille; "is it all over? Have you spoken, and did she silence you?"

"Not at all; she listened to me, without enthusiasm, it is true, but with attention and deference, when suddenly—Ah! my poor friend, how can it be helped? This sad world is full of accidents and Poles."

M. Langis looked at him in amazement, as if to ask for an explanation. M. Moriaz continued: "Do yourself justice. You are the most honest fellow upon earth, I grant; you are a charming man, and an engineer of the highest merit. But, unfortunately, there is no mystery of blood and tears in your existence; you are perfectly unpretending, frank, unaffected, and as transparent as crystal; in short, you are not a stranger. Had you a delicate, blond, and romantic mother, and do you wear her portrait on your heart? have you unfathomable green eyes? have you adventures to relate? have you visited California? have you swept the streets of San Francisco? have you exchanged bullets with the Cossacks? have you been killed in three combats and in ten skirmishes? I fear you have not even thought of dying once. Have you tried all professions, without succeeding in one? have you invented a gun which burst? and, above all, are you as poor as a church-mouse? What! is it possible that you possess none of these fine advantages, and yet are audacious enough to ask me for my daughter's hand?"

M. Moriaz ended this harangue as the Samaden mail-coach passed. Count Abel, seated on the outside, bowed and waved his hand to them.

"Look well at that man," said M. Moriaz to Camille, "for he is the enemy."

And then, instead of giving him the remaining information that the youth desired, he said:

"Go away and forget; it is the best thing that you can do."

"You do not know me yet," replied Camille. "I am obstinate, I fire to the last cartridge. I will follow your steps. Oh! don't be afraid, I will lie—deceive Antoinette; let her think that I have relinquished my claims. I shall pay her only a friendly visit; but my eyes hunger to see her, and I will see her."

The morning of the following day the enemy arrived at Chur, whence he proceeded to Berne. Deponent saith not why he failed to turn aside at Soleure, as he had expressed his intention of doing in order to pay tribute there to the memory of the great Kosciuszko. The facts of the case are, that from Berne he went direct to Lausanne, and that immediately on reaching there he hastened to the Saxon Casino. When he seated himself at the gaming-table, he experienced a violent palpitation of the heart. His ears tingled, his brain was on fire, and the cold sweat started out on his forehead. He cast fierce glances right and left; he seemed to see in his partner's eyes his past, his future, and Mlle. Moriaz life-size. Fortune made amends for the harshness she had shown him at Milan. After a night of anguish and many vicissitudes, at daybreak Count Abel had twenty thousand francs in his pocket. It was sufficient to pay his debts, which he was anxious to do, and to enable him to await without too much impatience the moment for executing his projects.

He left the casino, his face flushed and radiant; he was so joyful that he became tender and affectionate, and, had M. Guldenthal himself come in his way, he could have embraced him.



CHAPTER IV

Although he had said nothing about it to Mlle. Moriaz in narrating to her his voyages and Odysseys, Count Abel was already acquainted with Paris, having made several long sojourns there. This may seem improbable. Gone in his early youth to America, he had not recrossed the ocean until he returned to fight in Poland; since then he had lived in Roumania and Vienna. Where, then, had he found time to visit France? Certain it is, however, that he was at home on the boulevard, and that he knew well the streets that led to the places where Paris amuses itself; but he had no thoughts now for amusements. Notwithstanding the fact that his purse was full, he proposed to live a retired and austere life. He found suitable apartments in one of the lodging-houses of Rue Mont-Thabor. These apartments, on the fifth floor, were pleasant but modest; they consisted of two rooms having a view of the chestnut-trees in the garden of the Tuileries. The portress was a nice woman, whose good-will Count Abel gained on the very first day. He considered it useful, in the affairs of this world, to be at peace with both conscience and portress.

After getting installed in his garret his first care was to write to M. Moses Guldenthal. He informed him that he was ready to refund interest and capital, and he commissioned him to pay off some trifling debts that he had left in Vienna; he also desired him to send him the bracelet, which he hoped to make use of. He felt a genuine relief in the thought that he owed no man anything, that his condition was clear and transparent. When a man is proud he likes to be out of debt, and when he is clever he foresees all possible contingencies. His second care was to go to the Passage de l'Opera and buy a bouquet for sixty francs, which he carried to No. 27 Rue Mouffetard. He had one of those memories that retain everything and let nothing escape them. This bouquet—the most beautiful Mlle. Galet ever had received—caused her great astonishment. She did not know to whom to attribute it, the modest donor having escaped from the effusions of her gratitude by not making himself known. She supposed that Mlle. Moriaz had sent it to her, and, as she had taste for composition, she wrote to her a four page letter of thanks.

Count Abel had not forgotten that he was the bearer of a commission from Mlle Moriaz. A few days after his arrival, he decided to go to Maisons, but to take the longest route there; he wanted to see Cormeilles in passing, and a certain villa in which he was particularly interested. He went in the Argenteuil cars, got out at Sannois, climbed that pretty hill that commands the loveliest of views, and stopped at the inn of Trouillet mills in order to breakfast there. The morning was charming—it was in the middle of August—and the approach of autumn was already felt, which enhances the beauty of all things. The sky was flecked with small gray clouds; a light, silvery mist hung on the brow of the hills; in two places the Seine appeared glittering in the sunshine. Abel breakfasted in the open air; while eating he gazed on the sky and on the great garden-plain extending at his feet, covered with vegetables, grape-vines, and asparagus, interspersed with fruit-trees. The wooded hills bordering it formed an admirable frame. In his present mood Count Larinski was charmed with the landscape, which was at once grand and smiling. Then he questioned himself as to how much a bed of asparagus would yield at the gates of Paris, and, having finished his calculation, he surveyed with the eye of a poet the heather and broom that surrounded him. He decided that the Sannois Hill is more beautiful than Koseg; and indeed it is not necessary to be in love with Mlle. Moriaz to hold that opinion.

After having had a good breakfast, he again set out, following the crest of the hill and going through the woods. As he approached Cormeilles, he saw in the distance, beyond a grove of oaks, the white walls of a pretty villa. His heart beat faster, and by a sort of divination he said within himself, "That must be it." He inquired; he had made no mistake. Five minutes later he stood before a railing, through which he saw a green lawn. At the entrance of the porter's lodge a woman sat knitting.

"Can you tell me where M. Moriaz lives?" asked Count Larinski.

"Here, monsieur," she replied; "but M. Moriaz is absent; he will not return for a month. If you come from a distance, monsieur," she added, graciously, "perhaps you would like to rest awhile on the terrace. The view is beautiful."

This hospitable reception seemed a good omen, for, sensible as he was, he believed in presentiments and prognostics. He entered without waiting to be urged. When he had crossed the lawn he stood facing two detached buildings, separated by a mass of verdure: to the right, an old summer-house, used from time immemorial for M. Moriaz's collections, laboratory, and library; to the left, a new two-story house, part stone, part brick, built in an elegant but unobtrusive style, without ornament or pretension, and flanked by a turret covered with ivy and clematis, which served for a dove-cote. The house was not a palace, but there was an air about it of well-being, comfort, and happiness. In looking at it you felt like saying, "The inmates here ought to be happy!" This was about what Count Abel said to himself; in fact, he could hardly refrain from exclaiming, "Dieu! how happy I shall be here!" The situation, the terrace, the garden, everything pleased him infinitely. It seemed to him that the air here was fresher, more delightful than elsewhere, that it was exhilarating in the extreme; it seemed to him that the grass on the lawn was greener than any grass he ever had seen before, that the flowers in the carefully tended borders exhaled an unusually delicious perfume. He espied an open window on the ground-floor. He drew near it; the room into which he gazed, full of bric-a-brac of exquisite choice, was Mlle. Moriaz's study. There was in the appearance of this little sanctuary, hung with white silken drapery, and as elegant as the divinity whose favourite tarrying-place it was, something of purity, chastity, and maidenliness. It opened its windows to the fresh breezes and to the perfume of the flowers; but it seemed as if nothing could penetrate there that was coarse or suspicious; that the entrance was forbidden to all doubtful or malignant beings who might have a secret crime to hide, to all pilgrims through life who had travelled its highways and had brought hence dust and mud on the soles of their shoes. Strange to say, Count Abel experienced an attack of timidity and embarrassment. He felt that he was indiscreet; he averted his eyes and went away.

This impression was soon dispelled. He regained his assurance, and walked around the terrace twice, treading the gravel with the step of a conqueror, making it feel the full weight of his foot. He finally seated himself on a bench; he had the nonchalant attitude of a man who is at home. Five or six doves were billing and cooing on the ledge of the roof; he could readily understand that they were talking of him, and that they were saying, "Here he is—we have been waiting for him." A beautiful Angora cat, white as snow, with delicate nose and silky hair, came, arching her back and waving her bushy tail, from out a grove, and advanced towards him. She examined him curiously an instant, rubbed herself against the bench, and then sat coquettishly at the feet of the intruder. He caressed her, saying: "You are as white and graceful as your mistress; you are an intelligent animal; you understand, my dear, that I come from her. Shall I tell you a secret? She loves Count Abel Larinski."

With these words he rose and left, after thanking the portress, who would have been extremely astonished had she been aware of the reflections that had just been occupying his mind. He went a short distance on the highway, then finding, to the right, a road that led to Cormeilles, he took it, but soon struck into a path that wound through the woods. He was sorry to leave a spot that spoke vividly to his heart, and even more so to his imagination. He seated himself on the turf, in the midst of a grove of oaks; around him stretched a blooming heath. Through an opening in the grove, he could see Saint-Germain, its forests, and the Seine glittering in the sunshine, with the two bridges of Maisons Lafitte spanning it with their arches. Through another opening he caught a glimpse, to his left, of the proud bastions of Mont-Valerien, and, in the distance, Paris, the Arc de l'Etoile, the gilt dome of the Invalides, and the smoke of the factories rising slowly in the air, then by turns remaining stiff and motionless, or being swept away by the wind.

The place was retired, solitary, very still. No sound was to be heard save the singing of a lark, and at intervals the melancholy cry of a peacock. Abel Larinski was overcome by a mysterious emotion; he felt a voluptuous languor steal through his veins. He watched the smoke over Paris, and he saw floating in it an ethereal form whose face was partly concealed by a red hood. It smiled on him, and he read in this smile a promise of all the joys of the land of Canaan.

He turned away his eyes, partially closing them, and there appeared another form to him—in truth, very different from the first. It was that of a man whom he had known intimately, of a man whom he had deeply loved. In vain the lark sang aloud, in vain the peacock wailed—Abel Larinski no longer heard them. He was thinking of a certain Samuel Brohl; he was reviewing in his mind all the history of this Samuel, a man who never had had a secret from him. This history was quite as sad a one as that of Abel Larinski, but much less brilliant, much less heroic. Samuel Brohl prided himself neither on being a patriot nor a paladin; his mother had not been a noble woman with the smile of an angel, and the thought never had occurred to him of fighting for any cause or any person. He was not a Pole, although born in a Polish province of the Austrian Empire. His father was a Jew, of German extraction, as indicated by his name, which signifies a place where one sinks in the mire, a bog, swamp, or something of that nature; and he kept a tavern in a wretched little market-town near the eastern frontier of Galicia—a forlorn tavern, a forlorn tavern-keeper. Although always on the alert to sell adulterated brandy to his neighbour, and to seize the opportunity to lend him money on usury, he did not thrive: he was a coward of whose timidity every one took advantage to make him disgorge his ill-gotten gains. His creed consisted in three doctrines: he firmly believed that the arts of lying well, of stealing well, and of receiving a blow in the face without apparently noticing it, were the most useful arts to human life; but, of the three, the last was the only one that he practised successfully. His intentions were good, but his intellect deficient. This arrant rogue was only a petty knave that any one could dupe.

Abel Larinski transported himself, in thought, to the tavern in which Samuel Brohl had spent his first youth, and which was as familiar to him as though he had lived there himself. The smoky hovel rose before him: he could smell the odour of garlic and tallow; he could see the drunken guests—some seated round the long table, others lying under it—the damp and dripping walls, and the rough, dirty ceiling. He remembered a panel in the wainscoting against which a bottle had been broken, in the heat of some dispute; it had left a great stain of wine that resembled a human face. He remembered, too, the tavern-keeper, a little man with a dirty, red beard, whose demeanour was at once timid and impudent. He saw him as he went and came, then saw him suddenly turn, lift the end of his caftan and wipe his cheek on it. What had happened? An insolvent debtor had spit in his face; he bore it smilingly. This smile was more repulsive to Count Abel than the great stain that resembled a human face.

"Children should be permitted to choose their fathers," he thought. And yet this poor Samuel Brohl came very near living as happy and contented in the paternal mire as a fish in water. Habit and practice reconcile one even to dirt; and there are people who eat and digest it. What made Samuel Brohl think of reading Shakespeare? Poets are corrupters.

The way it happened was this. Samuel had picked up, somewhere, a volume which had dropped from a traveller's pocket. It was a German translation of The Merchant of Venice. He read it, and did not understand it; he reread it, and ended by understanding it. It produced a wild confusion of ideas in his mind; he thought that he was becoming insane. Little by little, the chaos became less tumultuous; order began to reign, light to dawn. Samuel Brohl felt that he had had a film over his eyes, and that it was now removed. He saw things that he never had seen before, and he felt joy mingled with terror. He learned The Merchant of Venice by heart. He shut himself up in the barn, so that he might cry out with Shylock: "Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?" He repeated, too, with Lorenzo:

"Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold. There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins: Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it."

Samuel sometimes rose at night to watch the heavens, and he fancied he heard the voices of the "young-eyed cherubins." He dreamed of a world where Jessicas and Portias were to be met, of a world where Jews were as proud as Shylock, as vindictive as Shylock, and, as Shylock, ate the hearts of their enemies for revenge. He also dreamed, poor fool, that there was in Samuel Brohl's mind or bosom an immortal soul, and that in this soul there was music, but that he could not hear it because the muddy vesture of decay too grossly closed it in. Then he experienced a feeling of disgust for Galicia, for the tavern, for the tavern-keeper, and for Samuel Brohl himself. An old schoolmaster, who owned a harpsichord, taught him to play on it, and, believing he was doing good, lent him books. One day, Samuel modestly expressed to his father a desire to go to the gymnasium at Lemberg to learn various things that seemed good to him to know. It was then that he received from the paternal hand a great blow, which made him see all the stars of heaven in broad daylight. Old Jeremiah Brohl had taken a dislike to his son Samuel Brohl, because he thought he saw something in his eyes that seemed to say that Samuel despised his father.

"Poor devil!" murmured Count Abel, picking up a pebble and tossing it into the air. "Fate owes him compensation, it has dealt so roughly with him thus far. He fell from the frying-pan into the fire; he exchanged his servitude for a still worse slavery. When he left the land of Egypt, he fancied he saw the palms of the promised land. Alas! it was not long before he regretted Egypt and Pharaoh! Why was not this woman Portia? why was she neither young nor beautiful?" And he added: "Ah! old fairy, you made him suffer!"

It seemed to Count Larinski that this woman, this ugly fairy who had made Samuel Brohl suffer so much, stood there, before him, and that she scanned him from head to foot, as a fairy, whether old or young, might scan a worm. She had an imperious, contemptuous smile on her lips, the smile of a czarina; so Catharine II smiled, when she was dissatisfied with Potemkin, and said to herself, "I made him what he is, and to-morrow I can ruin him." "Yes, it was she, it was surely she," thought Count Larinski. "I cannot mistake. I saw her five weeks ago, in the Vallee du Diable; she made me tremble!"

This woman who had taken Samuel Brohl from out of the land of Egypt, and had showered attentions upon him, was a Russian princess. She owned an estate of Podolia, and chance would have it that one day, in passing, she stopped at the tavern where young Samuel was growing up in the shadow of the tabernacle. He was then sixteen. In spite of his squalid rags, she was struck by his figure. She was a woman of intelligence, and had no prejudices. "When he is well washed and cared for," she thought, "when he is divested of his native impurities, when he has seen the world and had communication with honest people, he certainly will be a noble fellow." She made him talk, and found him intelligent; she liked intelligent men. She made him sing, assured herself that he had a voice; she adored music. She questioned him; he told her all his misery, and while he talked she said to herself: "No, I do not mistake; he has a future before him; in two or three years he will be superb. Three years is not long: the gardener who grafts a young tree is often condemned to wait longer than that." When he had ended his narrative, she told him that she was in want of a secretary, that she had had several, but that she had soon tired of them, on account of their not having the desired qualifications; she asked him if he would like to accept the position. He replied only by pointing his finger to his father, who was smoking his pipe on the door-step. A moment later she was closeted with Jeremiah Brohl.

She at once proposed to him to buy his son; he dropped his arms in astonishment, then felt delighted and charmed. He declared, at first, that his son was not for sale; and then he insinuated that if ever he did sell him he would sell him dear; he was, according to his opinion, merchandise of the best quality, a rich and rare article. He raised his demands ridiculously; she exclaimed; he affirmed he could not put them lower, that he had his terms, and that he always sold at a fixed price. They disputed a long time; she was about to give up; he yielded, and they ended by making the transaction. She sent for Samuel and said to him: "My boy, you belong to me—I have bought you for cash. You are satisfied with the bargain, are you not?"

He was stupefied to learn that he had a commercial value; he never had suspected it. He wanted very much to know what he was worth; but the princess was discreet upon the subject, and desired that he should believe that he had cost her a fabulous sum. After reflection, he made his conditions; he stipulated that he should belong to himself for three years, which time he would employ in study and in satisfying a multitude of curious longings.

She readily consented, as that had been her own intention: it would take fully three years before the fruit was ripe and ready to be served at the princely table. She gave him instructions and advice, all bearing the stamp of a superior mind; she understood the world, the state of public affairs, and physiology, all that can be learned, and all that cannot be learned. Thus Samuel Brohl set out, his pocket well filled, for the University of Prague, which he soon left to settle at Heidelberg, whence he went to Bonn, then to Berlin, then to Paris. He was restless, he did not know what he wanted, but wherever he went he studied semiquavers, naturals, and flats; it was part of the conditions.

The princess was herself a great traveller; two or three times a year Samuel Brohl received a visit from her. She questioned him, examined him, felt him, as we feel a peach to be certain it is ripe. Samuel was very happy; he was free, he enjoyed his life, he did as he pleased. One single thing spoiled his happiness; when he looked in the glass, he would sometimes say within himself: "These are the features of a man who is sold, and the woman who bought him is neither young nor beautiful." Several times he determined to learn a trade, so that he might be in a position to refund the debt and break the bargain. But he never did. He was both ambitious and idle. He wanted to fly at once; he had a horror of beginnings of apprenticeships. His early education had been so neglected that in order to recover lost time he would have been compelled to study hard—all the more so because, although he was quick-witted, and had a marvellous facility for entering into the thoughts of others, his own stock was poor; he had no ideas of his own, nor individuality of mind. He possessed a collection of half-talents; even in music, he was incapable of originating; when he attempted to compose, his inspirations proved mere reminiscences. He did himself justice; he felt that, strive as he might, his half-talents never would aid him to secure the first position, and he disdained the second. In fact, what he most needed was will, which, after all, makes the man. He tried to fling himself from his horse, which carried him where he did not desire to go; but he felt that his feet held firm in the stirrup; he had not strength to disengage them, and he remained in the saddle. Not being able to be a great man, he abandoned himself to his fate, which condemned him to be only a knave. At the expiration of his term of freedom, he declared himself solvent, and the princess took possession of her merchandise.

"Yes, poets are corrupters," thought Count Abel Larinski. "If Samuel Brohl never had read The Merchant of Venice, or Egmont, a tragedy in five acts, or Schiller's ballads, he would have been resigned to his new position; he would have seen its good sides, and would have eaten and drunk his shame in peace, without experiencing any uncomfortable sensations; but he had read the poets, and he grew disgusted, nauseated. He was dying with desire to get away, and the princess suspected it. She kept him always in sight, she held him close, she paid him quarterly, shilling by shilling, his meagre allowance. She said to herself: 'So long as he has nothing, he cannot escape.' She mistook; he did escape, and he was so afraid of being retaken that for some time he hid like a criminal, pursued by the police. He fancied that this woman was always on his track. It was then, for the first time, that he felt hunger, for they eat in the land of Egypt. He lived by all sorts of expedients, and cursed the poets. One day he learned that his father was dead; he hastened to the old tavern in order to succeed to the inheritance. He was not aware that for two years old Jeremiah Brohl had been in his dotage, and that his debtors mocked him while devouring his substance. A fine inheritance! it was diminished to two or three rickety chairs, four cracked walls that scarcely could stand upright, and some jewellery concealed in a hiding-place that Samuel knew of. Old Jeremiah never had been able to dispose of it for the price he required, and he preferred to keep it rather than lower his charge. He had principles, which was well for Samuel, as the jewellery was useful to him. He sold a necklace, and set out for Bucharest, some one having told him that he certainly would make his fortune there. He gave music-lessons; this wearisome profession did not suit him, he could not endure the constraint and the regular hours. The boys plagued him—he would willingly have wrung their necks; the girls treated him like a dog—they never thought of his being handsome, because they suspected him of being a Jew. Why had he gone to Bucharest—a city where all Germans are Jews, and where Jews are not considered men? Although he had earned a little money, he grew melancholy, and he began to think seriously of killing himself."

Count Abel Larinski leaned forward, plucked a spray of heather, tickled his lips with it, and began to laugh; then, striking his breast, he said, in an undertone, "Thank God, Samuel Brohl is not dead, for he is here!"

He spoke the truth: Samuel Brohl was not dead, and life was of value to him, since he had met Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz in the cathedral in Chur. It was Samuel Brohl who had come to Cormeilles, and who was seated, at this moment, in the midst of a grove of oaks. Perhaps the lark that he had heard singing a quarter of an hour before had recognised him, for it had ceased singing. The peacock continued its screaming, and its doleful cries sounded like a warning. Yes, the man seated among the heather, employed in narrating his own history to himself, was indeed Samuel Brohl, and the proof of this was that he had laughed, while Count Abel Larinski never laughed; moreover, for four years the latter had been out of the world. The second reason is, perhaps, the better.

He whom, with or without his consent, we shall call henceforth Samuel Brohl, reproached himself for this access of levity, as he would have reproached himself for a false note that had escaped him in executing a Mozart sonata. He resumed his grave, dignified air, in order to salute with a wave of his hand the phantom that had just appeared before him. It was the same that he had summoned one evening at the Hotel Steinbock, and treated there as an addle-brain, as a visionary, and even as an imbecile; but this time he gave him a more indulgent and gracious reception. He bore him no ill-will, he wished him well, he was under essential obligations to him, and Samuel Brohl was no ingrate.

"Ah! well, my poor friend, I am here," he said, in that mute language that phantoms understand. "I have taken your place, and almost your form; I play your part in the great fair of this world, and, although your noble body has rested for four years, six feet underground, thanks to me you still live. I always have had a most sincere admiration for you. I considered you a phenomenon, a prodigy. You were courageous, devoted, generosity itself; you esteemed honour above all the gold deposits in California; you detested all coarse thoughts and doubtful actions; your mother had nourished you in all sublime follies. You were a true chevalier, a true Pole, the last Don Quixote in this age of sceptics, plunderers, and interlopers. Blessed be the chance that made us acquainted! You lived retired, solitary, unknown, in a miserable hovel just outside of Bucharest. So goes the world! You were in hiding—you who had nothing to hide from either God or man—you who deserved a crown. Alas! the Russian Government had the poor taste not to appreciate your exploits, and you feared that it would claim and obtain your extradition. At our first meeting I pleased you, and you took me into your friendship; I spoke Polish, and you loved music. I became your intimate friend, your sole companion, your confidant. You must grant that you owe to me the last happy moments of your short existence. I soon knew your origin, the history of your youth, of your enterprises, and of your misfortunes. You initiated me into the secret of the great invention that you had just made; you explained to me in detail the mechanism of your famous gun. I was intelligent; I understood, or thought I understood. This gun, you said, would one day make my fortune, for, on your own account, you had renounced all hope; you had heart-disease, and you knew that you were condemned to a speedy end. My imagination was kindled. Through my entreaty you decided to leave with me for Vienna. This expedition was fatal to you, but I swear to you I did not foresee it."

Samuel crossed his hands on his knee; then he continued: "May my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, may my blood cease to flow in my veins, may the marrow dry up in my bones, if ever I forget to be grateful for what I owe to you, Abel Larinski, or cease to remember the forlorn hovel in which we passed the first night of our journey! You were attacked by suffocation. You had only time to call and wake me. I hastened to you. You gave me, in a dying voice, your last instructions. You delivered into my hands your last fifty florins, which were as acceptable as an orange would have been to the shipwrecked passengers of the Medusa. Then you pointed with your finger to a box, in which were inclosed family relics, letters, your journal, and papers. You said: 'Destroy all that; Poland is dead, let no one remember that I have lived!' After that you breathed your last. Well! I confess that I did not fulfil your orders. I kept your mother's portrait, the papers, all; and, in announcing your decease to the police, I made them believe that the man who was dead was named Samuel Brohl, and that Count Larinski still lived. What would you have me do? The temptation was too great. Samuel Brohl had disgraceful antecedents, he was base-born, he had been sold; there was a stain on his past that never could be wiped away, and, as he had had the misfortune to read the poets, it had come about that he often despised himself. It was, indeed, time that he should be thrown into the shade, and my joy was extreme to know that he was dead, and to feel that I was alive. As soon as I succeeded in persuading myself that I was indeed Count Abel Larinski, I was as happy as a child whose parents have dressed him in new clothes, and who struts about to show them. With your name I acquired a noble past; in thought, I roamed through it with delight; I visited its every nook and corner, as a poor devil would make the circuit of a park that he has just come to inherit. You bequeathed me your relations, your adventures, your exploits. When you fought for your country, I was there; when you received a gun-shot-wound near Dubrod, it was into my flesh that the bullet penetrated. Of what do you complain? Between friends is not everything in common? I left my own skin, I entered yours; I was satisfied there, and desired to remain. To-day I resemble you in everything; I assure you that if we were seen together it would be difficult to tell us apart. I have assumed your habits, your manners, your language, the poise of your head, your playful melancholy, your pride, your opinions, all, even to the colour of your hair and your handwriting. Abel Larinski, I have become you: I mistake, I am more Pole, more Larinski, than you were yourself."

At this moment Samuel Brohl had a singular expression of countenance; his gaze was fixed. He was no longer of this world—he conversed with a spirit; but he was neither terrified nor awed, as was Hamlet in talking to the shade of his father. He treated familiarly the shade of the true Abel Larinski; it was precisely as we treat a partner that has transacted business with us in the same firm.

"It is very true, my dear Abel," he continued, "that the principle of partnership accomplishes wonders; one man alone is a small affair. But, of all partnerships, the most useful and convenient is the one that we have made together. The living and the dead can render each other important services, and they never quarrel. You should be satisfied; you play a fine role; you are the signature of the house. We will not speak of your gun; that was a poor speculation, for which I scarcely can pardon you. It was the fault of your disordered brain that we wandered off on that bypath, but, thanks be to Heaven! we have at last gained the highway. Five weeks ago we met a woman, and what a woman! She has velvety-brown eyes, whence glances well forth like fresh and living waters. To praise her grace properly, I must borrow the language of the 'Song of Solomon': 'Thy lips, O my spouse! drop as the honey-comb; honey and milk are under thy tongue; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon. This thy stature is like to a palm-tree. Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee. A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse: a spring shut up—a fountain sealed.' Some day she will cry out, with the Shulamite, 'Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits.' She belongs to us, my dear Larinski—my dear partner; she had yielded, and you and I share the honour of the victory. I presented myself before her, and my presence did not displease her. I related to her your history, as you would have related it yourself, with delicacy and simplicity, neither adding nor omitting. Her heart was touched; her heart was taken captive. You will wed her—she will bear your name; but you will marry her by proxy, and I shall be your proctor. I promise to consider myself your mandatory, or, to express it better, you will own the property and I will have the usufruct. Never fear that I shall forget what I owe to you, or the modesty proper to my estate."

At these words, he made a grand gesture, as if to banish the phantom that he had conjured up, and that fled away trembling with sorrow, shame, and indignation. The peacock cried anew a mournful shriek. "Stupid bird!" thought Samuel Brohl, quaking with sudden dread.

He looked at his watch, and reflected that the hour was advancing—that he was losing time with the spirits. He rose hastily, and wended his way toward Cormeilles; thence he wished to come upon a sunny path that led to the banks of the Seine, and Sartrouville, the belfry of which was plainly visible. When he reached the foot of the declivity, he turned his head and saw, on the summit of the hill, through the space left by the crooked branches of two plantains, a white wall, that seemed to laugh amid the verdure, and a little higher the pointed roof of the dove-cote, where Mlle. Moriaz's doves had their nests. He did not need to look long at this roof to recognise it. He threw a burning kiss in the air—a kiss that was sent to the doves as well as to the dove-cote—to the house as well as to the woman—to the woman as well as the house. For the first time in his life, Samuel Brohl was in love; but Samuel Brohl's love differed from Abel Larinski's. When they adore a woman, be she as beautiful as a picture, the frame, if it is a rich one, pleases them as much as the painting; and they propose to possess their mistress with all her appendages and appurtenances.



CHAPTER V

Mme. de Lorcy was a woman of about fifty years of age, who still possessed remains of beauty. She had been a widow for long years, and never had thought of marrying again. Although her wedded life had been a happy one, she considered that liberty is to be prized above all else; she employed hers in a most irreproachable manner. She was self-possessed, even better acquainted with numbers than with dress, and managed her property herself, which was by no means a trifling thing to do. Liking to make good use of her time, she thought to do it by busying herself in the affairs of others. She had a real vocation for the profession of a consulting lawyer. Usually her advice was sensible and judicious—nothing better could be done than to follow it; only her clients complained that she pronounced her sentences with too little tenderness, without granting any appeal. She was good, charitable, but lacked unction, and she had no sympathy with the illusions of others. A German poet, in making his New-Year offerings, wishes that the rich may be kind-hearted, that the poor may have bread, that the ladies may have pretty dresses, that the men may have patience, that the foolish may get a little reason, and that sensible people may grow poetic. Mme. de Lorcy was kind-hearted, she had pretty dresses and a great deal of reason; but her reason was wanting in poetry, and poetic people to whom she gave advice required a good deal of patience to listen to the end. Those who permitted themselves to despise her counsel, and who were happy after their own fashion, incurred her lasting displeasure. She obstinately asserted to them that their seeming happiness was all a deceit; that they had fastened a stone about their necks; and that, without appearing to do so, at the bottom of their hearts they bitterly repented. She added, "It is not my fault; I told you, but you would not believe me."

Mme. de Lorcy had an almost maternal affection for her nephew, M. Camille Langis. Confident that he could not be otherwise than successful in a love-affair, she promised him that he should marry Mlle. Moriaz. To be sure, he was rather young; but she had decided that the question of age made no difference, and that in all else there was a perfect fitness between the parties. M. Langis hesitated a long time about declaring himself. He said to Mme. de Lorcy: "If she refuse me, I shall no longer be able to see her; and so long as I can see her, I am only half-wretched." It was Mme. de Lorcy who forced him to draw his sword and open the campaign, in which she was to act as second. This campaign had not been a successful one. Deeply wounded at the refusal, which she had in vain attempted to prevent, she was ready to force Mlle. Moriaz into compliance. They made her believe, to pacify her, that the sentence was not definite, or at least that a period of grace would be granted to the condemned. M. Langis set out for Hungary, and he had now returned. In the mean time, Antoinette had refused two offers. Mme. de Lorcy had inferred this to be a favourable omen for her projects. Thus she felt annoyance mingled with anger on receiving the following letter from M. Moriaz:

"DEAR MADAME:

"You will be charmed to learn that I am extremely well. My cheeks are full, my complexion florid, my legs as nimble as a chamois, my appetite like that of an ogre. If ever you become anemic, which God forbid, you should set out forthwith for Saint Moritz, and I shall soon have good news from you. Saint Moritz is a place where you find what you want, but you find, besides, what you do not want. I do not speak of bears; I have not seen any, and should I meet one, I am strong enough to strangle it. Besides, bears are taciturn animals, they never relate their histories, and the only animals I fear are those that have the gift of narrating, and that one is not allowed to strangle. I will say no more. Have I made myself intelligible? You are so intelligent.

"Apropos, Antoinette sends you a sketch or a painting, I do not know which, that will be handed to you by Count Abel Larinski. He is a Pole, of that there can be no doubt; you will perceive it at once. I wish him well; he was obliging enough to extricate me from a breakneck position into which I had foolishly thrust myself. That I have a pair of legs to walk on, and a hand to write with, I owe to him. I recommend him to your kind reception, and I beg you to get him to relate his history. He is one of those who narrate, not every day, it is true, but when you touch the right spring, he starts, and cannot be stopped. Seriously, M. Larinski is no ordinary man; you will find pleasure in his acquaintance. I have discovered that he is in rather embarrassed circumstances. He is the son of an emigrant, whose property has been confiscated. His father was a half fool, who made great attempts to cut a channel through the Isthmus of Panama, and never succeeded in cutting his way through anything. He was himself beginning to earn money in San Francisco, when, in 1863, he gave everything up to go and fight against the Russians. This enthusiastic patriot has since adopted the calling of an inventor, in which he has been unsuccessful; he is now in search of a livelihood. Do not think he will ask for anything; he is an hidalgo; he wraps himself proudly in his poverty, as a Castilian does in his cloak. I am interested in him; I want to assist him, give him a lift; but, first, I wish to feel sure that he is worthy of my sympathy. Examine him closely, sift him well; I trust your eyes rather than my own; I have the greatest faith in your skill in this kind of valuation.

"Antoinette sends you her most affectionate greetings. She adores Saint Moritz; you would think that she had found something here which has wrought a charm over her. For my own part, I am delighted to have recovered my appetite, my sleep, and all the rest, and yet I regret having come; can you reconcile that? Let me know as soon as possible what you think of my Pole; but, pray do not condemn him unheard. No hasty decision, I entreat; an expert is bound not to be influenced by his prejudices, but to weigh his judgments as his words. Adieu, dear madame; pity me in spite of my full cheeks."

Madame de Lorcy replied in these words, by return mail:

"You are indeed innocent, my dear professor, and your finesse is but too apparent; I could not help understanding. Is she, indeed so foolish. I did not think her overwise; but here she astonishes me more than I would have believed. You can tell her, for me—or rather don't say anything to her; I will only speak to you, I am too angry to reason with her. I will see your Pole, I await him resolutely; but, in truth, I have seen him already. I am well acquainted with him, I know him by heart; I have no doubt that he is some impostor. I will examine him without prejudice, with religious impartiality. You are so good as to remind me that an expert suspends his judgment. I will hold my police force in reserve, and I will let you know before long what I think of your adventurer. Ah! yes, I do pity you, poor man. After all, however, you alone are to blame; is it my fault that you did not know how to act? God bless you!"

At the time when Samuel Brohl, seated amid the heather, in an oak-grove, was conversing with phantoms, Mme. de Lorcy, alone in her salon, was occupied with her needlework, and her thoughts, which revolved in a circle, like a horse in a riding-school. She had for several days been expecting Count Abel Larinski's visit; she wondered at his want of promptness, and suspected that he was afraid of her. This suspicion pleased her. Several times she fancied she heard a man's step in the antechamber, at which she started nervously, and the rose-coloured strings of her cap fluttered on her shoulders.

Suddenly, while she was counting her stitches, with head bent down, some one entered without her perceiving it, seized her hand, and, devoutly kissing it, threw his hat on the table, and then dropped into a chair, where he remained motionless, with his legs stretched out, and his eyes riveted on the floor.

"Oh! It is you, Camille," exclaimed Mme. de Lorcy. "You come apropos. Well?"

"Well! yes, madame, that is it," replied M. Langis; "and you see before you the most unhappy of men. Why is your pond dry? I want to fling myself into it head foremost."

Mme. de Lorcy laid down her embroidery, and crossed her arms. "So you have returned?" said she.

"Would to God I never had gone there! It is a land where poison is sold, and I have drunk of it."

"Don't abuse metaphors. You have seen her? What did you say to her?"

"Nothing, madame—nothing of what is in my heart. I made her believe that I had reflected, and changed my views; that I was entirely cured of my foolish passion for her; that I was simply making her a friendly visit. Yes, madame, I remained half a day with her, and during the half day I never once betrayed myself. I convinced her that the mask was a face. Tell me, conscientiously, have you ever read of a more heroic act in Plutarch's Lives of Great Men?"

"She herself, what did she say to you?"

"She was so enchanted, so delighted with the change, that she was dying to embrace me."

"She shall pay for it. And he, did you see him?"

"Just caught a glimpse of him, looked up to him as was befitting the humility of my position. This fortunate man, this glorious mortal, was enthroned on the top of the mail-coach."

"Is he really so fascinating?"

"He has, I assure you, a certain look of deep profundity, and he bears his exploits inscribed on his brow. What am I, to contend against him! You must allow that I have the appearance of a school-boy. And yet, if I were to boast. This road in Transylvania for which I had the contract was by no means easy to construct. We had to cut through the solid rock, working in the air, suspended by ropes. This perilous labour so disheartened our workmen that some of them left us; to encourage the rest, I was slung up like them, and like them handled the pickaxe. One day, in the explosion of a charge a piece of stone struck the rope of one of my men with such violence that it cut it as clean in two as the edge of a razor would have done. The man fell—I believed him to be lost; by a miracle, his clothes caught in some brushwood, to which he succeeded in clinging. It was I who went to his assistance, and I swear to you that in this rescue I proved the strength of my muscles, and ran the risk twenty times of breaking my neck. The workmen had mistrusted me on account of my youth; from that day, I can assure you, they held me in respect."

"Did you relate this incident to Antoinette?"

"What would have been the use? With women it does not suffice to be a great man; you must have the look of one too." And Camille Langis cried out, clinching his hands: "Ah! madame, I entreat you, do you know where I can procure a Polish head, a Polish mustache, a Polish smile? Pray, where are these articles to be had, and what is their market price? I will not haggle! O women! what a set you are—plague on you!"

"And are aunts the same?" gravely asked Mme. de Lorcy.

He answered more calmly: "No, madame, you are a woman without an equal, and I name you every day in my prayers. You are my only resource, my consolation, my counsel. Do not refuse me your precious instructions! What ought I to do?"

Mme. de Lorcy gazed up at the ceiling for an instant, and then said: "Love elsewhere, my dear; abandon this foolish girl to her fate and her Pole."

He started and replied: "You demand what is impossible. I am no longer my own master; she has taken possession of me—she holds me. Love elsewhere? Can you think of it? I detest her—I curse her—but I adore her!"

She rejoined: "You should not use hyperbole any more than metaphors. Both are unsolid food. When you decide not to love, you will love no more."

"That supposes that I have several hearts to choose from. I never had but one, and that no longer belongs to me. So you refuse me your advice?"

"What advice would you have me give you before having seen M. Larinski—before having taken the measure of this hero?"

"What! you expect to see him?"

"I am waiting for him to call, and I am sorry he keeps me waiting."

"Seriously, will you receive this man?"

"I have been asked to examine him."

"I am lost, if you feel the need of hearing before condemning him. Our most sacred duty is to be resolutely unjust towards the enemies of our friends."

"Nonsense! I shall not be indulgent towards him."

"Do as you like; I have my plan."

"What is it?"

"I shall seek some groundless quarrel with this contraband, this poacher, and I will blow his brains out."

"A fine scheme, my dear Camille! And afterward, when you have killed him, you will have gained a great deal. Have you confidence in me? I have already begun to work for you. The Abbe Miollens, as you know, is well acquainted in the society of Polish emigrants; I have sent to him for information. I have also written to Vienna for intelligence concerning him. Antoinette is foolish in forming such an acquaintance, it must be admitted; but, in matters of honour, she is as delicate as an ermine in tending the whiteness of her robe; if there be in M. Larinski's past a stain no larger than a ten-sou piece, she will forever discard him. Let me act; be wise, do not blow out any one's brains. Grand Dieu! what would become of us, if the only way to get rid of people was by killing them?"

As she pronounced these words a servant entered, bearing a card on a silver salver. She took the card and exclaimed: "When you speak of the wolf—Here is our man!" She begged M. Langis to retire; he implored permission to remain, promising to be a model of discretion. She was insisting on his leaving when Count Abel Larinski appeared.

Samuel Brohl had scarcely taken three steps in Mme. de Lorcy's salon before he conjectured why M. Moriaz had asked him to go there, and what was the significance of the commission with which he was charged. Notwithstanding the salon had a southern exposure, and that it was then the middle of the month of August, it seemed to him to be cold there. He thought that he felt a draught of chilly air, an icy wind, which pierced him through and through, and caused him an unpleasant shiver. He did not need to look very attentively at Mme. de Lorcy to be convinced that he was before his judge, and that this judge was not a friendly one; and, as soon as his gaze met that of M. Camille Langis, something warned him that this young man was his enemy. Samuel Brohl had the gift of observation.

He delivered his message, and handed Mme. de Lorcy the little portfolio that contained Mlle. Moriaz's painting, expressing his regret that business had prevented his coming sooner. Mme. de Lorcy thanked him for his kindness, with rather a cool politeness, and asked him for news of her goddaughter. He did not expatiate on this topic.

"The valley of Saint Moritz is a dreary country," she next said.

"Rather say, madame, that it is a dreary country possessing a great charm for those who love it."

"It appears that Mlle. Moriaz is almost wearied to death there. I should think she would die of ennui."

"Do you think her capable of yielding to ennui in any place?"

"Certainly, do not doubt it; but she has recourse to her imagination to dispel the tedium. She has a marvellous talent for procuring herself diversion and for varying her pleasures. Hers is an imagination having many relays: no sooner is one horse exhausted than there is another to take its place."

"That is a precious gift," he replied, briefly. "I assure you, however, that you calumniate the Engadine. The trees there are not so well grown as those in your park; but the Alpine fir and pine have their beauty."

"You went to this hole for your health, monsieur?"

"Yes, and no, madame. I was not ill, but any physician contended that I should be still better if I breathed the air of the Alps for three weeks. It was taking a cure as a preventive."

"M. Larinski made the ascent of the Morteratsch," said Camille, who, seated on a divan with his arms extended on his knees, never had ceased to look at Samuel Brohl with a hard and hostile glance. "That is an exploit that can be performed only by well people."

"It is no exploit," replied Samuel; "it is a work of patience, easy for those who are not subject to vertigo."

"You are too modest," rejoined the young man. "Had I done as much, I would sound a trumpet."

"Have you attempted the ascent?" asked Samuel.

"Not at all. I do not care about having feats of prowess to relate," he replied, in an almost challenging tone.

Mme. de Lorcy hastened to interrupt the conversation by saying, "Is this the first time you have been in Paris, monsieur?"

"Yes, madame," replied Samuel, who withdrew more and more into his shell.

"And does Paris please you as much as a pine-grove?"

"Much more, madame."

"Have you any acquaintances?"

"None; and the truth is, I have no desire to make any."

"Why?"

"Shall I tell you my reason? I am not fond of breaking ice, and Poles complain that there is nothing in the world so icy as Parisian coldness."

"That explains itself," cried Camille. "Paris, that is Paris proper, is a small city of a hundred thousand souls, and this small city is invaded more and more, by strangers who come here to seek pleasure or fortune. It is but natural that Paris should protect itself."

"Parisians pride themselves on their penetration," replied Samuel. "It does not require much of it to distinguish an honest man from an adventurer."

"Ah! permit me," returned M. Langis, "that depends a good deal on practice. The most skillful are deceived."

Samuel Brohl rose and made a movement to leave. Mme. de Lorcy insisted on his sitting down again. She saw that she had made a bad beginning in the fulfilment of her office of examining magistrate, and of gaining the prisoner's confidence. Fearing that Camille, in spite of his promise, would spoil everything by some insult, she found a pretext to send him away; she begged that he would go and examine a pair of horses that were a recent acquisition.

As soon as he was gone, she changed her manner; she grew amiable, she endeavoured to remove the ill impression of her first welcome; she put Count Abel at his ease, who felt that the air lost its chilliness about him. Without appearing to do so, she made him undergo an examination—she asked him many questions; he replied promptly. Visitors came in; it was an hour before he took leave, after having promised Mme. de Lorcy to dine with her the next day.

She did not wait until then to write to M. Moriaz. Her letter was thus conceived:

"August 16, 1875.

"You recommend me to be impartial, my dear friend. Why should I not be? It is true that I have dreamed of a certain marriage: one of the parties would not listen to my propositions, and the other had abandoned the idea. My project has come to nothing. Camille has enjoined me never to speak of it to him again. You see I am no longer interested in the question, or, rather, I have in the matter no other interest than that which I feel for Antoinette, whose happiness is as dear to me as it is to you. Apropos, do not give her my letters; read to her the passages that you judge suitable to communicate to her—I leave that to your discretion.

"First of all, let me unfold to you my humble opinions. I am charged with having prejudices; it is a shocking calumny. I will make you a profession of faith, and you shall judge. I am at war with more than one point of our French morals; I deplore the habit that we have formed of considering marriage as a business transaction, of esteeming it as a financial or commercial partnership, and making everything subordinate to the equality of the personal estates. This principle is revolting to me, my dear friend. We are accused in foreign countries of being an immoral people. Heavens! it seems to me that we understand and practise virtue quite as much as the English or Germans, and, to speak the whole truth, I am not afraid to advance the opinion that this, of all the countries of the universe, is the one where there is the most virtue. It is not at that point that we sin. Our misfortune is, that we are too rational in our habits of life, too circumspect, too prudent; we lack boldness in our undertakings; we wish, as it is said, to have one foot on firm land and the other not far off. We must have security; we do not like risk; doubtful affairs do not please us; we are too prone to look ahead, and to look ahead is to fear. That is one reason why we send out no colonies, and that is the reason we have no more children. Are you satisfied with me?

"Napoleon I was in the habit of saying that, in fighting a battle, he so ordered matters as to have seventy chances out of a hundred in his favour; he left the rest to Fate. Ah! brave people, life is a battle, but the French of to-day will not risk anything. They are the most honest, the least romantic of men, and I regret it. Read Antoinette this passage of my letter. Our young people think that they have a right to the paternal fortune; they consider that their father is wanting in his duty if he does not leave them a settled position, a certain future. Their second preconceived notion is that they must find a wife who will bring them as much at least as they have to offer her. I have so much, you have so much—we are evidently created for each other; let us marry. All this is deplorable. I like better to hear of the young American who only expects from his parents the education necessary for a man to make his way; he has his tools given to him and the method of using them, but not a sou. You have learned to swim, my friend—swim. After that he marries, most frequently a woman who has nothing, and who loves to spend money. May the God Dollar protect him! he will gaily make an opening for himself in life, and his wife will give him ten children, who will follow the same course as their father. Where it is customary for hunger to marry thirst, there are happy marriages, and a hardy race of people. In all conscience, am I not romantic enough?