"Let me consider another case. Take a man who has fortune: he profits thereby to consult his heart only, and offer his name and revenues to the woman he loves and who has no dower. I clap my hands, I think it the best of examples, and I regret that it is so seldom practised among us. In France princes never are seen marrying shepherdesses; on the contrary, one too often sees penniless sons-in-law carrying off heiresses, and that is precisely the most objectionable case. In a romance, or at the theatre, the poor young man who marries a million is a very noble person; in life it is different. Not if the poor young man had a profession or a trade, if he could procure by his own work a sufficient income to render him independent of his wife; but if he submit to be dependent on her, if he expect from her his daily bread, to roll in her carriage, to ask her for the expenses of his toilet, for his pocket-money, and perhaps for sundry questionable outlays—frankly, this young man lacks pride; and what is a man who has no pride? Besides, what surety is there that in marrying it is, indeed, the woman he is in love with and not the dower? Who assures me that Count Abel Larinski?—I name no one, personalities are odious, and I own there are exceptions. Dieu, how rare they are! If I were Antoinette, I would love the poor, but in their own interest. I would not marry them. The interest of the whole human race is at stake. Beggars are inventive; let them have their own way to make, and they will be sure to invent some means of livelihood; give them the key of a cash-box, and they will cease to strive, you have destroyed their genius. My dear professor, in fifteen years I have brought about a great many marriages. Three times I have married hunger to thirst, and, thank God, I once decided a millionaire to marry a poor girl who had not a sou, but I never aided a beggar to marry a rich girl. Now you have my principles and ideas—Are you listening to me still? You fall asleep sometimes while listening to a sermon. Good! you open your eyes—I proceed:

"I have seen your man. Well, sincerely, he only half pleases me. I do not deny that he has a handsome head; a sculptor might use it as a model. I will add that his eyes are very interesting, by turns grave, gentle, gay, or melancholy. I have nothing to say against his manners or his language; his address is excellent, and he is no booby—far from it. With all this there is something about him that shocks me—I scarcely know what—a mingling of two natures that I cannot explain. He might be said to resemble, according to circumstances, a lion or a fox; I believe that the fox-nature predominates, that the lion is supplementary. I simply give you my impressions, which I am perfectly willing to be induced to change. I am inclined to fancy that M. Larinski passed his first youth amid vulgar surroundings, that later he came into contact with good society, and being intelligent soon shook off the force of early influences; but there still remain some traces of these. While he was in my salon his eyes twice took an inventory of its contents, and that with a rapidity which would have done credit to a practised appraiser. It was then, especially, that he had the air of a fox.

"Nor is this all. I read the other day the story of a princess who was travelling over the world, and asked hospitality, one evening, at the door of a palace. Was she a real princess or an adventuress? The queen who received her judged it well to ascertain. For this purpose she prepared for her, with her own hands, a soft bed, composed of two mattresses, on which she piled five feather-beds; between the two mattresses she slipped three peas. The next day the traveller was asked how she had slept. 'Very badly,' she replied. 'I do not know what was in my bed, but my whole body is bruised; I am black and blue, and I never closed my eyes until dawn!' 'She is a true princess,' cried the queen. Is M. Larinski a true prince? I made him undergo the test of the three peas. I allowed myself to question him with indiscreet, urgent, improper curiosity; he did not appear to feel the indiscretion. He replied promptly and submissively; he endeavoured to satisfy me, and I was not satisfied. I shall see him again to-morrow—he comes to dine at Maisons. I only wish to be able to prove to myself that he is a true prince.

"My dear professor, you are the most imprudent of men, and, whatever happens, you have only yourself to blame. People do not open their doors so easily to strangers. You tell me that, thanks to M. Larinski's kindness, you did not break your leg. Mercy on me! a father would better break his leg in three places than expose his daughter to the risk of marrying an adventurer; his leg could be easily set. There is nothing so frightful in that.

"Postscriptum.—I open my letter. I want to prove to you how much I desire to be just, and how far my impartiality goes. You know that my neighbour, Abbe Miollens, lived a long time in Poland, and has correspondents there. I begged him to get me information concerning the count—of course, without explaining anything to him. He reports that Count Abel Larinski is a true count. His father, the confiscation of the property, the emigration to America, the Isthmus of Panama—all is true; the history is authentic. Countess Larinski was a saint. Concerning the son, nothing is known; he must have been three or four years old when he landed in New York. No one ever saw him; no one seems to know anything about his taking part in the insurrection of 1863. Having spoken the truth about his parents, it is to be presumed that he told the truth about himself. Very well, but one can fight for one's country, and have a saint for one's mother, and yet possess none of the qualities that go towards making a happy household. I take back the word adventurer, but I still hold to all I have said about him. Why did he take an inventory of my furniture with his eyes? Why did he sleep so soundly in a bed where there were three peas? This requires an explanation.

"Kiss Antoinette for me. Give my regards to Mlle. Moiseney, without telling her that I think her a simpleton; it is a conviction in which I shall die. Was it, indeed, very difficult to descend from that terrible rock of yours?"

Three days later, Mme. de Lorcy wrote a second letter:

"August 19th.

"I have received this very moment, my dear monsieur, the reply from Vienna that I have been expecting, and which I hasten to share with you. I had applied to our friend Baron B—-, first secretary of the embassy from France to Vienna, in order to try to learn what reputation Count Larinski had left there. He is esteemed there as a most worthy man; as an inventor who was more daring than wise; as a devoted patriot; as one of those Poles whose only thought is of Poland and of their Utopia, and who would set fire to the four corners of the earth without wincing, for the sole purpose of procuring embers at which to roast their chestnuts. I will not return to the subject of the gun; you know all about it. It seems that there was some good in this explosive gun, and that he who invented it united a sort of genius with ingenuousness, inexperience, and ignorance enough to make one weep. Nothing can be said against the private character of the man. He had a few debts, and his tradespeople felt considerable anxiety when he left Vienna one morning on foot. He had no sooner reached Switzerland than he sent back money to settle everything. Here we have an admirable trait. However, his tastes were simple, and he led a steady life; it was the gun that brought his finances into disorder. I will add that M. Larinski visited in Vienna at several of the most distinguished houses, where he is remembered most kindly. He was sought everywhere on account of his talents as a musician, which were far more to be relied on than his talent as a gunsmith. He plays the piano to perfection, and has a very beautiful voice. Had he employed these talents, he could have made his way to the opera, but his dignity held him back. Now you know what has been communicated to me by Baron B—-. On the faith of an honest woman, I have neither added nor omitted anything.

"I am going to astonish you. Would you believe that I am beginning to be reconciled to Count Larinski? What shocked me in him is explained and excused by his long residence in America. He is a mixed breed of Yankee and Pole. Far from having prejudices against him, I now have them in his favour. Do you know, I am by no means sure that he cherishes in his heart any serious sentiment for your daughter? As a man of taste he admires her. I should like to know who would not admire her! I suspect Antoinette of allowing her imagination to become excited about nothing. He talks of her on all occasions in as free and tranquil a fashion as he would talk of a work of art. I find it impossible to believe that he is in love. I have in vain watched his green eyes. I never have seen a suspicious look.

"As I announced to you, he came to Maisons yesterday to dine. I had invited Abbe Miollens, and Camille had invited himself, promising that he would act like a philosopher; he only half kept his promise: for I must inform you that my nephew has conceived, I do not know why, an insurmountable antipathy to M. Larinski; he is subject to taking dislikes to people. During dinner, Abbe Miollens, who is a great linguist and a great traveller, and who has at the ends of his fingers everything concerning Poland and the Poles, led the conversation to the insurrection of 1863. M. Larinski, at first, refrained from discussing this sad subject; little by little the flood-gates were opened: he related his adventures or campaigns without boasting, praising others rather than himself; when suddenly his voice grew husky and his eyes dim, he interrupted himself, and begged we would speak of other things. Fortunately, at this moment, he did not see Camille, whose lips were a sinister smile. Young Frenchmen have become such sceptics! I made eyes at the bad boy, and on leaving the table I sent him to smoke a cigar in the park.

"I should confess to you that M. Larinski has made a conquest of Abbe Miollens, who of all men is the most difficult to please, and who disputes with Providence the privilege of fathoming the depths of the human heart. You are aware that the abbe is a remarkable violinist: he sent for his instrument; M. Larinski seated himself at the piano, and the two gentlemen played a concert by Mozart—divine music performed by two angels of the first class. The conversation that followed charmed me more than the concerto. I do not know by what fatality we came to speak of marriage. I did not miss the opportunity to disclose with a most innocent air, my little theories, with which you are acquainted. Would you believe that the count concurred, more than concurred, with my views? He is more royalist than the king; he does not admit that a good rule allows of any exception. According to him, a poor man who marries a rich woman forfeits his honour, debases himself, sells himself; he is a man in bondage. He developed this theme with sombre eloquence. I assure you that the lion no longer bore resemblance to the fox.

"After the departure of this fine musician and great orator, Abbe Miollens, remaining alone with me, told me how much he was charmed with his conversation and manners; he could not cease to sing his praises. I think he went a little too far. However, I joined with him in regretting that a man of his merit should be reduced to live by expedients. The abbe's arm reaches a long way; he promised me that he would busy himself, at the expense of all other business, to find some employment for M. Larinski. He remembered that there was some talk of establishing in London an international school for the living languages. One of the founders of this institute had applied to him to learn if he could recommend some professor of the Slavonian languages. It would be exactly the thing, and I should be delighted to procure for your protege an occupation that would insure all the happiness that it is possible to enjoy on the other side of the Channel. After this, will you still accuse me of being prejudiced against him?

"Adieu, my dear monsieur. Give my tender love to my amiable goddaughter. I rely on you to read my letters to her with care and discretion. Little girls should have only a part of the truth."

Eight days afterward Mme. de Lorcy wrote a third letter, which was thus expressed:

"August 27th.

"I am more and more content with M. Larinski. I blame myself for the suspicions with which he inspired me. The Viennese were right to consider him a worthy man, and Abbe Miollens has not valued him too highly. You write, on your part, my dear friend, that you are not dissatisfied with Antoinette. She is gay, tranquil; she walks, paints, never speaks of Count Abel Larinski, and, when you speak to her of him, she smiles and does not reply. You claim that she has reflected; that time and absence have wrought their effect. 'Out of sight, out of mind,' you say. Take care! I am more mistrustful than you. Are you very sure that Antoinette may not be a slyboots?

"What is certain is, that I received a charming epistle from her, in which there is no more mention of M. Larinski than if Poland and the Pole did not exist. She praises Engadine; she pretends that she would ask for nothing better than to end her days in a pine-forest. I can read between the lines that it would be a pine-forest after her own heart, where there would be reunions, balls, guests to dinner, small parties, a conservatory of music, and the opera. The last paragraph of her letter is devoted to the insurrection in Herzegovina, and it is hardly worth while to say that all her sympathies are with the insurgents. 'If I were a man,' she writes, 'I would go and fight for them.' That is very well; she always took the part of thieves against the police. I remember long ago—she was ten years old—I told her the story of an unfortunate traveller besieged in a forest by an army of wolves. He made a barricade about himself, and around it he lighted great fires. The wolves fell into the flames, where they roasted, one after the other. Antoinette began to weep bitterly, and I imagined that she was lamenting the terror of the unfortunate man. 'Not at all,' she cried: 'the poor beasts!' She was made so; we cannot remake her. She will always side with the wolves, especially with the lean ones who scarcely can make two ends meet.

"I told you that Count Larinski was a worthy man. He came to see me the day before yesterday. We have become very good friends. I asked him if Paris still pleased him, and he replied, with the most gracious smile, 'What I like best in Paris is Maisons Lafitte.' Thereupon he said some exceedingly pretty things, which I will not repeat. We walked tete-a-tete around the park. Heaven be praised that I returned heart-whole! We talked politics; he bears the reputation of being hot-headed, but he is not wanting in good sense. I wished to know if he was in favour of the Turks or of the Bosnians. He replied:

"'As a Christian, as a Catholic, I am interested in the Christians of the East, and I am for the Cross against the Crescent.' He pronounced these words, Christian, Catholic, and cross, in a tone full of unction. I surmise that he is a devotee. He added, 'As a Pole, I am for Turkey.'

"'I believed,' said I, 'that the Poles had sympathy with all the oppressed.'

"'Poles,' he replied, 'cannot like those who like their oppressors, and they cannot forget that the Osmanlis are their natural allies, and, on occasions, their refuge.'

"I gave him Antoinette's letter to read. I was very glad, at any hazard, to prove to him that she could write four pages without asking about him. He read it with extreme attention: but when he came to the famous passage—'If I were a man, I would go and fight for them!'—he smiled, and returned me the letter, saying, in a disdainful and rather a dry tone:

"'Write for me to Mlle. Moriaz that I believe I am a man, yet that I will not fight for the Bosnians, and that the Turks are my greatest friends.'

"'She is foolish,' I said. 'Fortunately, she changes her folly with every new moon!'

"'What would you have?' he replied; 'in order not to be insipid, it is well to be a little foolish. My poor mother used often to say: "My son, youth should be employed in laying by a great store of extravagant enthusiasm; otherwise, at the end of life's journey the heart will be void, for much is left on the road."'

"Calm, seigneur, your excited fears, no one has designs on your daughter; we evidently find her charming, but are by no means in love with her. With much precaution and circumlocution I gently proceeded to question Count Larinski on the state of his affairs, about which he never has opened his mouth. He frowned. I did not lose courage. I offered him this place of professor of the Slavonian languages of which the abbe had again spoken. I saw in an instant that his sensitive pride had taken alarm. However, upon reflection, he softened, thanked me, declined my kind offer, and announced—guess what! How much is my news worth? what will you give for it? He announced, I tell you, that in two weeks—you understand me—he will return to Vienna, where he has been promised a post in the archives of the Minister of War. I did not dare to ask what was the salary; after all, if he is satisfied, it is not for us to be harder to please than he. When I affirm that Count Larinski is a good, worthy man!—In two weeks! you understand me perfectly.

"My dear friend, I am enchanted to know that the water of Saint Moritz and the air of the Engadine have entirely re-established your health; but do not be imprudent. Half-cures are fatal. Be careful not to leave Churwalden too soon, for the descent into the heavy atmosphere of the plains. Your physician, whom I have just seen, declares that, if you hasten your return he will not answer for the consequences. Antoinette, I am sure, will join her entreaties to ours. Do not let us see you before the end of three weeks! Follow my orders, my dear professor, and all will go well. Camille is about to leave; he has become insupportable. He had the audacity to assert to me that I was a good woman, but very credulous, which in my estimation is not very polite. He no longer acts as a nephew, and respect is dead."

Ten days later M. Moriaz received at Churwalden a fourth and last letter:

"September 6th.

"Decidedly my dear friend, Count Larinski is a delightful man, and I never will pardon myself for having judged ill of him. The day before yesterday I did not know the extent of his merit and of his virtues. His beautiful soul is like a country where one passes from one pleasing discovery to another, and at each step a new scene is revealed. Between ourselves, Antoinette is a dreamer: where has she got the idea that this man is in love with her? These Counts Larinski have artists' enthusiasm, tender and sensitive hearts, and poetic imaginations; they love everything, and they love nothing; they admire a pretty woman as they admire a beautiful flower, a humming-bird, a picture of Titian's. Did I tell you that the other day, as I was showing him through my park, he almost fainted before my purple beech—which assuredly is a marvel? He was in ecstasy; I truly believe there were tears in his eyes. I might have supposed he was in love with my beech; yet he has not asked my permission to marry it.

"Moreover, if he were up to his eyes in love with your daughter, have no fear; he will not marry her, and this is the reason—Wait a little, I must go further back.

"Abbe Miollens came to see me yesterday afternoon; he was distressed that M. Larinski had not approved of his proposition.

"'The evil is not so great,' I said; 'let him go back to Vienna, where all his acquaintances are; he will be happier there.'

"'The evil that I see in it,' he replied, 'is that he will be lost to us forever. Vienna is so far away! Professor in London, only ten hours' journey from Paris, he could cross the Channel sometimes, and we could have our music together.'

"You can understand that this reasoning did not touch me in the least; whatever it cost me I will bear it, and resign myself to lose M. Larinski forever; but the abbe is obstinate.

"'I fear,' he said, 'that the Austrians pay their archivists badly; the English manage matters better, and Lord C—- gave me carte blanche.'

"'Oh! but that,' rejoined I, 'is a delicate point to touch. As soon as you approach the bread-and-butter question, our man assumes a rigid, formal manner, as if an attack had been made on his dignity.'

"'I truly believe,' he replied, 'that there is a fundamental basis of incomparable nobility of sentiment in his character; he is not proud, he is pride itself.'

"The abbe is passionately fond of Horace; he assets that it is to this great poet that he owes that profound knowledge of men for which he is distinguished. He quoted a Latin verse that he was kind enough to translate for me, and that signified something equivalent to the statement that certain horses rear and kick when you touch the sensitive spot. 'That is like the Poles,' he said.

"Meanwhile, M. Larinski entered, and I retained the two gentlemen to dinner. In the evening they again gave me a concert. Why was Antoinette not there? I fancied I was at the Conservatoire. Then we conversed, and the abbe, who never can let go his idea, said, without any reserve, to the count:

"'My dear count, have you reflected? If you go to London, we could hope to see you often; and, besides, the salary—well, as this terrible word has been spoken, listen to me; I will do all in my power to obtain conditions for you in every way worthy of your merit, your learning, your character, your position.'

"He was not permitted to finish the list; the count reared like the horse in Horace, exclaiming, 'O Mozart! what a horrid subject of conversation!' Then he added, gravely: 'M. l'Abbe, you are a thousand times too good, but the place offered to me in Vienna seems to me better adapted to my kind of ability; I would make, I fear, a detestable professor, and the salary, were it double, would in my opinion have but little weight.'

"The abbe still insisted. 'In our century,' said he, 'less than any other, can one live on air.'

"'I have lived on it sometimes,' replied the count, gaily, 'and I did not find it bad. My health is proof against accidents. Ah! where money is concerned, you have no idea how far my indifference goes. It is not a virtue with me, it is an infirmity; it is because of my nationality, because I am my father's son. I feel myself incapable of thinking of the future, of practising thoroughly French habits of economy. If my purse is full, I soon empty it; after which I condemn myself to privations—no, that does not express it—I enjoy them. According to me, there is no true happiness into which a little suffering does not enter. Besides, I have a taste for contrasts. At times I believe myself a millionaire, I have the pretensions of a nabob; I give full scope to my fancies; the next day, my bed is hard and I live on bread-and-water, and am perfectly happy. In short, I am a fool once in the year, and a philosopher the rest of the time.'

"'The trouble is,' returned the abbe, 'that one day of folly will sometimes suffice to compromise forever the future of a philosopher.'

"'Oh, reassure yourself,' replied he; 'my extravagances never are very dangerous. There was method in Hamlet's madness, and there is always a little reason in mine.'

"While making this declaration of principles, he had seated himself at the piano, and idly began running his fingers over the keys. Suddenly he began to sing a German song, which I got Abbe Miollens to translate for me, and which is not long. The hero of the song is an amorous pine, standing on the summit of a barren mountain of the north. He is alone; he is weary; the snow and ice wrap him in a white mantle, and he spends his dreary hours of leisure in dreaming of a palm, which in days of yore he met, it seems, in his travels.

"M. Larinski sang this little melody with so much pathos that the good abbe was touched, and I became anxious. Anxiety, once felt, is apt to be constantly returning. I asked myself if he had met his palm in the Engadine, and added aloud, rather dryly: 'Is the day of your departure definitely fixed? will you not do us the favour of granting us a reprieve?'

"He executed the most pearly chromatic scale, and replied: 'Alas! madame, I am only deferring my departure on account of a letter that cannot be much longer delayed; in less than a week, I shall have the distress of bidding you farewell.'

"'You shall not leave,' said Abbe Miollens, 'without letting us hear once again the poem of the pine. You sang it with so much soul that it seemed to me you must be relating an episode of your own history. My dear count, did you ever chance to dream of a palm?'

"He answered: 'I have no longer the right to dream; I am no longer free.'

"The abbe started and cried out, in his simple-hearted way, 'Ah! what, are you married?'

"'I thought I had told you so,' replied he with a melancholy smile, and he hastened to speak of a ballet that he had seen the evening before at the opera, and with which he was only half pleased.

"You can readily believe that when he pronounced the words, 'I thought I had told you so,' I was on the point of falling on his neck; I was so happy, that I was afraid he would read in my eyes my joy, astonishment, and profound gratitude. I think that he is very keen, and that he has conjectured for some time the mistrust with which he inspired me. If he wanted to mock me a little, I will pardon him; a good man unjustly suspected has a perfect right to revenge himself by a little irony. I ordered the horses to be put to my carriage to take him over to the railroad, and the abbe and I accompanied him as far as the station. There cannot be too much regard shown to honest people who have been abused by fortune.

"Well! what do you say, my dear friend? Was I wrong in claiming that M. Larinski is a delightful man? He will leave before the end of a week, and he is married, unhappily married, I fear, for his smile was melancholy. You see he may have married out of gratitude some grisette, some little working-woman, who nursed him through illness, one of those women who are not presentable; that would be thoroughly in character. Happily, in law there are no good or bad marriages; this one I hold to be unimpeachable.

"The reaction was violent: I am so rejoiced that I feel tempted to illuminate Cormeilles and Maisons Lafitte. In what way will your undeceive our dreamer? In your place I would use some precautions. Be prudent; go bridle in hand; and in the future, believe me, climb no more among the rocks; you see what it may lead to.

"Once more, do not hasten your departure. We have had for some days stifling heat; we literally suffocate. You need to spend a fortnight longer amid the shade of the pine-trees, and four thousand feet above the level of the sea.

"Adieu, my dear professor! I am interrupted in my writing by the incredulous, the sceptical, the suspicious, the absurd, the ridiculous Camille, who respectfully recommends himself to your indulgent friendship."



CHAPTER VI

In reading the fourth letter of Mme. de Lorcy, M. Moriaz experienced a feeling of satisfaction and deliverance, over which he was not master. His daughter had gone to pay a visit in the neighbourhood, and he was alone with Mlle. Moiseney, who said to him, "You have received good news, monsieur?"

"It is excellent," he replied; then, promptly correcting himself, he added: "Excellent, or to be regretted, or vexatious; I leave that to our powers of discernment."

When he had finished reading the letter, and replaced it in the envelope, he remained thoughtful for some moments; he was wondering how he should proceed to announce the excellent news. For three weeks his daughter had been a mystery to him. She never once had pronounced the name of Count Larinski. Churwalden pleased her as much as Saint Moritz; apparently, she was gay, tranquil, perfectly happy. Had her delusion passed away? Had she changed her mind? M. Moriaz did not know; but he surmised that still waters should be mistrusted, and that a young girl's imagination is like an abyss. One thoroughly good warning is worth two indifferent ones; henceforth, he feared everything. "If I speak to her," thought he, "I shall not be able to dissimulate my joy, and perhaps she will go into hysterics." He had a horror of hysterics; he resolved to have recourse to Mlle. Moiseney, and he said to her, abruptly:

"I suppose, mademoiselle, that you are acquainted with all that has passed, and that Antoinette has given you her confidence?"

She opened her eyes wide, and was on the point of answering that she knew nothing; but she restrained herself, and setting her little pointed head erect on her thin shoulders, she said, proudly, "Can you imagine that Antoinette would keep any secrets from me?"

"Heaven forbid!" replied he. "And do you approve, do you encourage her sentiments for M. Larinski?"

Mlle. Moiseney started; she had been far from suspecting that Count Larinski had specially impressed Mlle. Moriaz, and, as on certain occasions her mind worked rapidly, she understood immediately all the consequences of this prodigious event. There was a cloud before her eyes, and in this cloud she beheld all manner of things, both pleasing and displeasing to her; her mouth open, she strove to clear her ideas. She said to herself: "It is an imprudent act; not only that, it cannot be;" but she also said: "Mlle. Antoinette can no more make a mistake than the Queen of England can; because she wishes it, she is right in wishing it." Mlle. Moiseney ended by regaining her self-possession; her lips formed the most pleasant smile, as she exclaimed:

"He has no fortune, but he has a beautiful name. Mme. la Comtesse Larinski! it sounds well to the ear."

"Like music; I grant, it is perfect," rejoined M. Moriaz. "Unfortunately, music is not everything in the affairs of this world."

She was not listening to him. Full of her own idea, without taking time to breathe: "You jest, monsieur," she continued, with extraordinary volubility. "Believe me or not, I have foreseen this marriage for some time. I have presentiments that never deceive me. I was sure that it would be thus. What a handsome couple! Fancy them driving in an open carriage through the park, or entering a proscenium-box at the opera! They will make a sensation. And truly, without boasting, I think I may call your attention to the fact that I have been of some account in the affair. The first time I saw Count Larinski, you know, at the table d'hote in Bergun, I recognised at once that he was beyond comparison—"

"By-the-way, he ate trout?" interrupted M. Moriaz; "it does honour to your discernment."

"You had better ask Antoinette," replied she, "if that very evening I did not praise the handsome stranger. She maintained that he stooped, and that his head was badly poised; would you believe it?—his head badly poised! Ah! I was sure it would end so. Do you wish to prove my discernment? Shall I tell you where your letter comes from that contains such excellent news? The count wrote it; he has at last proposed. I guessed it at once. Ah! monsieur, I sympathize in your joy. He is, indeed, the son-in-law that I have dreamed of for you. A superior man, so open-hearted, so unaffected and frank!"

"Do you really think so?" asked M. Moriaz, fanning himself with the letter.

"He related to us his whole life," rejoined she, in a pedantic tone. "How many people could do as much?"

"A delightful narration. I only regret that he was silent concerning one detail which was of a nature to interest us."

"An unpleasant detail?" she asked, raising her gooseberry-coloured eyes to him.

"On the contrary, a circumstance that does him honour, and for which I am obliged to him. Believe me, my dear demoiselle, I should be charmed to receive a son-in-law from your hands, and to give my daughter to a man whose genius and noble sentiments you divined from merely seeing him eat. Unfortunately, I fear this marriage will not come about; there is one little difficulty."

"What?"

"Count Larinski forgot to apprise us that he was already married."

Mlle. Moiseney sent forth a doleful cry. M. Moriaz handed her Mme. de Lorcy's letter; after reading it, she remained in a state of deep dejection; a pitiless finger had burst the iris bubble that she had just blown, and that she saw resplendent at the end of her pipe.

"Do not give way to your despair," said M. Moriaz; "take courage, follow the example I set you, imitate my resignation. But tell me, how do you think Antoinette will take the matter?"

"It will be a terrible blow to her," replied Mlle. Moiseney; "she loves him so much!"

"How do you know, since she has not judged it best to tell you?"

"I know from circumstances. Poor dear Antoinette! The greatest consideration must be used in announcing to her this intelligence; and I alone, I believe—"

"I agree with you," M. Moriaz hastened to interpose; "you alone are capable of operating on our patient without causing her suffering. You are so skilful! your hand is so light! Make the best of the situation, mademoiselle—I leave it to you."

With these words he took up his hat and cane, and hastened to get away, rather anxious about what had passed, yet feeling too happy, too much rejoiced, to be a good consoler.

It was not long before Mlle. Moriaz returned from her walk. She came humming a ballad; she was joyous, her complexion brilliant, her eyes sparkling, and she carried an armful of heather and ferns. Mlle. Moiseney went to meet her, her face mournful, her head bent down, her glance tearful.

"Why! what is the matter, my dear Joan?" she said; "you look like a funeral."

"Alas!" sighed Mlle. Moiseney, "I have sad news to communicate."

"What! have they written to you from Cormeilles that your parrot is dead?"

"Ah, my dear child, be reasonable, be strong; summon up all your courage."

"For the love of God, what is the matter?"

"Ah! would that I could spare you this trouble! Your father has just received a letter from Mme. de Lorcy."

Antoinette grew more attentive, her breath came quickly. "And what was there in this letter that is so terrible, so heart-rending?" she asked, forcing a smile.

"Fortunately, I am here," replied Mlle. Moiseney. "You know that your joys and your sorrows are mine. All the consolation that I can lavish upon you, the tenderest sympathy—"

"My dear Joan, in the name of Heaven, explain first, and then console!"

"You told me nothing, my child—I have a right to complain; but I have divined all. I can read your heart. I am sure that you love him."

"Of whom do you speak?" replied Antoinette, whose colour rose in her cheeks.

"Of a most charming man, who, either through inconceivable stupidity, or through most criminal calculation, neglected to tell us that he was married."

And with these words, Mlle. Moiseney extended both arms, that she might receive into them Mlle. Moriaz, whom she believed to be already swooning.

Mlle. Moriaz did not swoon. She flushed crimson, then grew very pale; but she remained standing, her head proudly erect, and she said, in a tone of well-feigned indifference: "Oh! M. Larinski is married? My very sincere compliments to the Countess Larinski."

After which she busied herself arranging in a vase the heather and ferns she had brought back with her. Mlle. Moiseney stood lost in astonishment at her calm; she gazed in a stupor at her, and suddenly exclaimed: "Thank God! you do not love him! Your father has mistaken, he often mistakes; he sometimes gets the strangest ideas into his mind; he was persuaded that this would be a death-blow to you; he does not know you at all. Ah! unquestionably, M. Larinski is far from being disagreeable; I do not dispute his having some merit; but I always thought that there was something suspicious about him; his manners were a little equivocal; I suspected him of hiding something from us. As it appears, he has made a mesalliance that he did not care to acknowledge. It is deplorable that a man of such excellent address should have low tastes and doubtful morality. His duty was to tell us all; he was neither loyal nor delicate."

"You dream, my dear," replied Antoinette. "What law, human or divine, obliged M. Larinski to tell us everything? Did you expect him to render an account of his deeds and misdeeds to us as to a tribunal of penance?"

In speaking thus, she took off her hat and mantilla, seated herself in the embrasure of a window, and opened a book which she began to read with great attention.

"God be praised! she does not love him," thought Mlle. Moiseney, who was not aware that Mlle. Moriaz was turning two or three pages at a time with perceiving it.

Deeply absorbed as she was, she still recognised her father's step as he came upstairs to his room. She hurried out to meet him. He noticed with pleasure that her face was not wan, nor were her eyes red. He was less satisfied when she said, in a calm, clear voice:

"Please show me the letter that you have received from Mme. de Lorcy."

"What is the use?" he rejoined. "I know it by heart. I am ready to recite it to you."

"Is it a letter that cannot be shown?"

"No, indeed; but as I tell you that I am ready to give you an account of it—"

"I would prefer to read it with my own eyes."

"After all, you have a right. There! take it. But I beg of you do not be offended by unfortunate expressions."

"Mme. de Lorcy always knows how to choose the proper word to express her thought," she responded.

When she had run her eye rapidly over Mme. de Lorcy's eight closely written pages, she looked at her father and smiled.

"You must own that you found a very useful and a very zealous ally in Mme. de Lorcy; do her this justice, she has worked hard, and you owe her many thanks for having busied herself so actively in ridding you of 'this worthy man, this good man, this delightful man'; those are her own words, if you remember."

M. Moriaz exclaimed: "I hope you do not imagine that it was a matter arranged between us. Do you really suspect me of having some dark plot with Mme. de Lorcy! Do you believe me capable of being implicated in an act of perfidy?"

"God forbid! I only accuse you of being too joyous, and of not knowing how to conceal it."

"Is that a crime?"

"Perhaps it is an indiscretion."

"I swear to you, my dear child, that I only consider your happiness, and Mme. de Lorcy herself—Since M. Langis no longer thinks of you, what reason could she have—"

"I do not know," interrupted Antoinette; "but her prejudice would take the place of reason."

"So you will not believe that Count Larinski is married?"

"I believe it, without being certain, and I wish to be assured of it. Have I not acted in good faith through all this matter? was I not ready to comply with your conditions? I consented to refer to the judgment of Mme. de Lorcy. She has deigned to be gracious to the accused. She has admitted that M. Larinski is a perfectly honourable and even a delightful man; but she has discovered, at intervals of several days, first, that he does not love me, and then, that he has deceived me by letting me believe that he was still free. I wish to satisfy my own mind, and convince myself that I am not being played with."

"And you have concluded——"

"I have concluded that, with your permission, we shall leave to-morrow morning for Cormeilles."

This conclusion was by no means agreeable to M. Moriaz, whose face grew sensibly longer.

"Of what are you afraid? You know that I have character, and you ought to know, no matter what Mme. de Lorcy says, that I am not wanting in good sense. When it is proved to me that I have deceived myself, I will make the sign of the cross over my romance; it will be dead and buried, and I promise you not to wear mourning for it."

"So be it," said he; "I believe in your good sense, I have faith in your reason: we shall leave to-morrow for Cormeilles."

Four days later, Mme. de Lorcy was walking in an alley in her park. She was joined there by M. Langis, to whom she said, in a good-humoured tone: "Always grave and melancholy, my dear Camille! When will you cease your drooping airs? I cannot understand you. I do my best to be agreeable to you, to settle matters satisfactorily. Nothing seems to cheer you. You make me think of the hare in La Fontaine:

"'Cet animal est triste, et la Crainte le ronge.'"

"Fear and hate, madame," replied he. "I hate this man; he is insupportable to me. I will give up coming to Maisons if I always must meet him here. Has he paid you his adieux for the last time?"

"Not yet; a little patience—we shall not count the minutes. Besides, what harm can this man do you? The lion has lost his claws—what do I say?—he has carried his good-nature to the point of muzzling himself. It is not generous to pursue with hate a disarmed enemy."

"Very well, madame, if he is not gone in three days, I return to my first idea; it was the best."

"You will cut his throat?"

"With all my heart."

"For the love of art?"

"I am not a very bloodthirsty individual, but I would take a singular delight in slashing at the skin of this gloomy personage."

Mme. de Lorcy shrugged her shoulders. "What makes you think him gloomy, my dear? You are perfectly reasonable. You ought to adore M. Larinski; you are under the greatest obligations to him. He has been the first to succeed in touching the heart of our dear, hitherto insensible girl; he has broken the charm. She was the Sleeping Beauty; he has awakened her, and, through the favour of Heaven, he cannot marry her. I can see her in Churwalden, a prey to the gloomiest ennui, weeping over her illusions, furious at having been deceived. Do you not divine all the advantage that can be derived from a woman's anger?"

"You know that I love her, and yet I do not wish to owe anything to her spite."

"You are a child: be guided. The moment is come for you to propose. In a few days you will start for Churwalden, and you will say to this angry woman, 'I have lied—I love you.' In short, you will talk to her of your amorous flame; and you may, freely, under these circumstances, exhaust all your treasure-store of hyperbole. She will listen to you, I can promise you, and she will say to herself, 'I seek vengeance—here it is.'"

"I would like to believe you, madame," he replied, "but are you very certain that Mlle. Moriaz is still at Churwalden?"

And, pointing with his finger, he showed her at the end of the avenue a figure coming towards them clad in a pretty nut-brown dress with a long train sweeping the gravel.

"Truly, I believe that it is she," cried Mme. de Lorcy. "M. Moriaz is the most unskilful person; but, after all, not much harm is done."

Mlle. Moriaz had arrived the evening previous at Cormeilles. After resting somewhat from the fatigues of the journey, she had nothing more urgent to do than to order the horses put to her coupe and to come and pay her respects to her godmother, who could not fail to be touched by this attention.

Mme. de Lorcy ran to Antoinette and embraced her several times, saying: "You are here at last! How charmed I am to see you again! You made us wait long enough; I began to fear that you had taken root in the Grisons. Is it indeed an enchanted land? I rather believe that your father is a cruel egotist, that he shamefully sacrificed you to his own convenience in prolonging his cure; but here you are—I will pardon him. Your poor, your proteges, are clamorous for you. Who do you think asked after you, the other day? Mlle. Galet, whom, according to your orders, I supplied with her quarter's allowance. How you spoil her! I found on her table a bouquet fit for a duchess; she insisted that you had sent it to her from where you were, and I had all the trouble in the world to make her understand that double camellias are not gathered among the glaciers of Roseg. Strew with flowers, if you will, Mlle. Galet's existence and garret; but do not fling at her head a bushel of double camellias, streaked with white; it is madness. I seriously propose to have you put under restraint. Never mind, I am very happy to see you again. You are looking very well.—Don't you think, Camille, that she appears extremely well?"

Mlle. Moriaz coldly received Mme. de Lorcy's embraces; but she smiled graciously on M. Langis, and pressed his hand affectionately. Mme. de Lorcy led them into her salon, where they talked on indifferent subjects. Antoinette was waiting for M. Langis's departure to broach the subject that she had at heart. At the end of twenty minutes, he rose, but immediately reseated himself. A door had just opened, giving admittance to Count Abel Larinski.

At the unexpected apparition of Samuel Brohl, the two women changed colour; the one flushed from the effort that she made to dissimulate her vexation, the other turned pale from emotion. Samuel Brohl crossed the salon with deliberate step, without appearing to recognise the person who was with Mme. de Lorcy. Suddenly he trembled, as if he had been touched by a torpedo, and, profoundly agitated, almost lost countenance. Was he as much astonished as he seemed? For some time the Sannois Hill had become his favourite promenade, and he never went there without going as far as a certain spot whence he could see the front of a certain house, the window-shutters of which had remained during two months as though hermetically sealed. It might be that the evening before he had found them open. Induction is a scientific process with which Samuel Brohls are familiar.

He had abundant will and self-control. He was not long in recovering himself; he raised his head like one who feels himself strong enough to defy all dangers. After greeting Mme. de Lorcy, he drew near Antoinette, and asked how she was, in a grave, almost ceremonious tone.

"Your visit distresses me, my dear count," said Mme. de Lorcy to him; "I fear it is the last. Have you come to bid us farewell?"

"Alas! yes, madame," he replied. "The letter for which I have been waiting has not yet arrived; but this delay will not alter my plans: in three days I shall leave Paris."

"Without a desire to return, without regret?" she asked.

"I shall only regret Maisons, and the kind reception I have received there. Paris is too large; little people like myself feel their smallness more here than elsewhere; it does not require an excess of pride for one to dislike being reduced to the state of an atom. Residing in Vienna suits me better; I breathe freer there; it is a city better adapted to my size and taste. Birds do wrong to change their nests."

Thereupon, he began to describe and warmly extol the Prater and its fine walks, Schonbrunn, its botanical gardens and the Gloriette, the church of St. Stephen's, and the limpid waters of the Danube; sometimes addressing himself to Antoinette, who listened without a word, and sometimes to Mme. de Lorcy, whose eyes were turned at intervals towards M. Langis, seeming to say to him: "Was I not right? Confess that your apprehensions lacked common-sense. Do you hear him? he has only half an hour to spend with her, and he describes the Prater. Are you still thinking of cutting his throat? Please say one polite and civil word to him. It is not he, it is you who are gloomy. Throw off your sinister air. How long will this taciturn reverie last in which you are sunk? You make yourself a laughing-stock—you act like a fool. You resemble a sphinx of the desert engaged in meditating upon a serpent, and who mistakes an innocent adder for a viper." M. Langis understood what she wished to say to him, but he did not throw off his sinister air.

After praising Vienna and its environs, Samuel Brohl eulogized the easy, careless character of the Viennese. He told, in a sprightly way, several anecdotes. His gaiety was rather feverish—somewhat forced studied, and abrupt; but, nevertheless, it was gaiety. Mme. de Lorcy responded to him, Mlle. Moriaz continued silent; she crumpled between her fingers the guipure lace of her Marie-Antoinette fichu, and, with fixed eye, she seemed to be counting the stitches. Samuel Brohl interrupted himself in the midst of a sentence, and rose suddenly. He turned towards Antoinette; in a hollow voice he begged her to tell M. Moriaz how much he regretted that his early departure would deprive him of the honour and pleasure of visiting him at Cormeilles; then he bowed to Mme. de Lorcy, thanked her for the happy moments that he had spent with her, and charged her to commend him to the kind remembrance of Abbe Miollens.

"We shall meet again, my dear count," she said to him, in a clear voice, emphasizing her words; "and I hope that, before long, we shall make the acquaintance of the Countess Larinski."

He looked at her in astonishment, and murmured, "I lost my mother ten years ago."

Immediately, without giving Mme. de Lorcy time to explain herself, he directed his steps hastily towards the door, followed by three glances, all three of which spoke, although they did not all say the same thing. The room was large; during the thirty seconds that it took him to cross it, the angel of silence hovered in the air.

He was about passing through the door, when, as fatality ordained, there occurred to him an unfortunate and disastrous thought. He could not resist the desire to see Mlle. Moriaz once more, to impress forever on his memory her adored image. He turned, and their eyes met. He paid dearly for this weakness of the will. Apparently the violent restraint that he had exercised over himself for an hour had exhausted his strength. It seemed to him that his heart ceased to beat; he felt his legs stiffen, and refuse to serve him; his teeth clinched, his pupils dilated, consciousness forsook him. Suddenly, heavily as a mass of lead, he fell prone upon the floor, where he remained in a senseless condition.

Mlle. Moriaz could not suppress a cry, and seemed for a moment on the point of fainting herself. Mme. de Lorcy drew her arm around her waist, and hurried her into the next room, throwing to M. Langis a bottle of salts as she did so, and saying, "Take care of Count Larinski."

The first thing that M. Langis did was to set the bottle on the table, after which he went close up to Samuel Brohl, who, fainting and inanimate, bore almost the appearance of death. He examined him an instant, bent over him, then, folding his arms and shrugging his shoulders, he said to him, "Monsieur, Mlle. Moriaz is no longer here."

Samuel Brohl did not stir. "You did not hear me," continued Camille. "You are superb, M. le Comte; you are very handsome; your attitude is irreproachable, and you might well be taken for a dead person. You fell admirably; I swear I never saw at the theatre a more successful fainting-fit; but spare yourself further trouble for the performance. I repeat, Mlle. Moriaz is no longer here."

Samuel Brohl remained inert and rigid.

"Perhaps you want to try the strength of my wrists," continued Camille. "Very well, I will give you that satisfaction."

And, with these words, he seized him round his waist, summoned all his strength in order to lift him, and deposited him at full length on the sofa.

He examined him again, and said: "Will this tragi-comedy last much longer? Shall I not find a secret to resuscitate you? Listen to me, monsieur. I love with all my soul the woman that you pretend to love. Does that not suffice? Monsieur, you are a Polish adventurer, and I have as much admiration for your social talents as I have little esteem for yourself. Does that not suffice yet? I would not, however, lift my hand to you. I entreat you to consider the affront received."

It seemed as if the dead man trembled slightly, and Camille exclaimed: "Thank God! this time you have given sign of life, and the insult found the way to your heart. I would be charmed to restore you to your senses. I await your commands. The day, the place, and the weapons, I leave to your choice. And, stay! You can count on my absolute discretion. No one, I give you my word, shall learn from me that your fainting-fit had ears, and resented insults. Here is my address, monsieur."

And, drawing from his pocket a visiting-card, he tried to slip it into the cold, listless, pendent hand, which let it fall to the ground.

"What obstinacy!" he said. "As you will, M. le Comte; I am at the end of my eloquence."

He turned his back, seated himself in a chair, and taking a paper, he unfolded it. Meanwhile the door opened, and Mme. de Lorcy appeared.

"What are you doing here, Camille?" she exclaimed.

"You see, madame," he answered, "I am waiting until this great comedian has finished playing his piece."

He was not aware that Mlle. Moriaz also had just entered the salon. She cast him an angry, indignant, threatening glance, in which he read his condemnation. He tried to find some word of excuse or explanation to disarm her anger, but his voice failed him. He bowed low, took his hat, and went away.

Mme. de Lorcy, very much agitated, opened a window; then she threw water into Samuel Brohl's face, rubbed his temples with a vivacity that was not altogether exempt from roughness, and made him smell English salts.

"Ah, my dear! pray go away," she said to Antoinette; "this is no place for you."

Antoinette did not go away; her face contracted, her lips trembling, she seated herself aside at some distance from the sofa.

Mme. de Lorcy's energetic exertions at last produced their effect. Samuel Brohl was not dead; a quiver ran through his frame, his limbs relaxed, and at the end of a few instants he reopened his eyes, then his mouth; he sat up, and stammered: "Where am I? What has happened? Ah, my God! it was but a moment ago that she was here!"

Mme. de Lorcy laid her hand on his mouth, and, bending over his ears, she said, in a severe, imperious tone, "She is here still!"

She did not succeed in making herself understood. One only recovers by degrees from such a fainting-fit. Samuel Brohl was again overcome by weakness; his eyes closed once more, and he let his head sink between his hands. After a silence of a few moments he said, in a choked voice: "Ah! pardon me, madame. I am ashamed of myself. My courage failed me; my strength betrayed me. I love her madly, and I had sworn never to see her again. It was in order to fly from her that I was going away."

He raised his head; he saw Antoinette; he looked wildly at her, as though he did not recognise her.

He recognised her at last, made a gesture of alarm, rose precipitately, and fled.

Mlle. Moriaz drew near Mme. de Lorcy, and said to her, "Well, what do you think of it?"

"I think, my dear," she replied, "that Mme. de Lorcy is a fool, and that Count Larinski is a powerful man."

Antoinette looked at her with a bitter smile, and touched her arm lightly. "Admit, madame," she said, "that if he had a hundred thousand livres' income, you would not think of doubting his sincerity."

Mme. de Lorcy did not reply; she could not say "No," and she was enraged to feel that she was both right and wrong. It is an accident that happens sometimes to women of the world.



CHAPTER VII

On her entering her coupe to return to Cormeilles, Mlle. Moriaz was the prey of an agitation that did not calm down during the entire drive. Her whole soul was stirred by a tender, passionate sentiment for the man who had swooned away in taking farewell of her; she was filled with anger against the foolish prejudices and the petty finesse of the people of the world; filled with joy at having baffled a monstrous conspiracy against her happiness; filled with pride because she had seen clearly, because she had not mistaken in her choice, and because the man whom she loved was worthy of being loved. During several days she had suffered cruelly from anxiety, from actual agony of mind, and over and over again she had said to herself, "Perhaps they are right." A woman's heart believes itself to be at the mercy of error, and it is torture to it to be obliged to doubt itself and its own clairvoyance. When it is unmistakably demonstrated to it that its god is only an idol of wood or of stone, that what was once adored must henceforth be despised, it feels ready to die, and imagines that some spring must give way in the vast machine of the universe, that the sky must fall, the earth crumble away; and yet a woman's error of judgment is not a matter of such very grave import. The sun continues to shine, the earth to revolve upon its axis, as though it had not occurred. The machine of the universe would be subject to quite too many accidents should it become unsettled every time a woman made a mistake.

"It was I who was right; they were incapable of comprehending him," though Mlle. Moriaz, as she crossed the Seine, and she contemplated with a delighted eye the lovely blue sky, the tranquil waters, the verdant banks of the river, with their long range of poplar-trees. It seemed to her that all was going well, that order reigned everywhere, that the Great Mechanician was at his post, that the world was in good hands, and that travellers therein had no cause to fear untoward mischance.

When she arrived at Cormeilles, M. Moriaz was shut up in his laboratory, which he had been overjoyed to find just as he had left it. A velvet skull-cap perched on one side of his head, his sleeves turned up, a brown holland apron tied round his neck and his waist, a feather brush in his hand, he had proceeded at once to examine his precious stock in detail—his furnaces, his long-necked, big-bellied matrasses, the curved necks and the tubulures of his retorts, his cucurbits, and his alembics. Balloons, tubes, pipettes, pneumatic vats, receivers, cupels, lamps, bell-glasses, blow-pipes, and mortars, he passed in review to assure himself that during his absence nothing had been damaged. He carefully dusted his jars, examined the labels, made sure that none of his treasures were cracked, that his gauges were not out of order. He was as happy as a king who has his troops pass in review before him, and feels convinced that they bear themselves well; that they will stand fire and do honour to their master.

Agreeable as was the occupation to which for two hours he had devoted himself, M. Moriaz had not forgotten the existence of his daughter and of M. Larinski. He knew that Antoinette had repaired to Maisons Lafitte to have an explanation with Mme. de Lorcy, and this thought cast a shadow over his felicity. He hoped, however, that this interview might turn out according to his wishes; that the Pole star, which had caused him so much disquietude, might disappear forever from his horizon.

Some one knocked at the door of his laboratory. "Come in!" he cried, and turning he saw Antoinette standing upon the threshold. He gazed at her fixedly. Her eye was so animated, her countenance so beaming, so luminous, that involuntarily he dropped his arms and let fall, as he did so, a little vial he held in his hands.

"Naughty girl, to cause such havoc in her father's laboratory!" she cried, gaily.

"The harm done is not very great," he replied; and he began diligently brushing up the fragments of the vial. It was his way of gaining time, but he did it so awkwardly that she snatched the brush from his hands: "This is the way to sweep," said she.

He watched her, saying to himself: "This is the reverse of the scene at Churwalden. It is now I who wear a long face, and she cannot dissemble her joy. Just requital of things here below."

So soon as she had finished her brushing she looked around and remarked: "Well, here you are once more in your paradise—this enchanted spot, where you taste such ineffable delights."

"Oh, yes, I am happy here—happy enough that is," he replied, with modesty.

"Fastidious creature! It is altogether charming in your laboratory."

"Yes, it is suitable. Nevertheless, I often reflect that there is something wanting. Do you know what my dream is? I should like to have over in yonder corner a transparent chapelle. You, perhaps, are unacquainted with a chapelle. It is a framework or basket-funnel above a chimney, for facilitating the release of volatiles and pernicious vapours, and having one side of glass. It enables the chemist to watch the process taking place within. German chemists have nearly always transparent chapelles in their laboratories."

"How can any one accuse you of lack of imagination?" she exclaimed. "You are a very romantic man, and your romance is a transparent chapelle. Now I know why you are so indulgent to the romances of others."

Then carelessly drawing the brush in her hand over an arm-chair, she seated herself in it, placed another seat facing her, and said: "Come, sit down here near me on this stool; I will put a cushion on it to make you more comfortable. Come, I must talk with you."

He drew near, seated himself, and put his ear towards her. "Must I take off my apron?" he asked.

"Why so?"

"I foresee that our conversation will revolve about matters pertaining to the height of romance. I wish to make a suitable appearance."

"Nonsense! your apron is very becoming. All that I desire and stipulate is, that you will accord me most religious attention."

She then proceeded to recount to him, point by point, all that had occurred at Mme. de Lorcy's. She began her recital in a tranquil tone; she grew animated; she warmed up by degrees; her eyes sparkled. He listened to her with deep chagrin; but he gazed on her with pride as he did so, thinking, "Mon Dieu, how beautiful she is, and what a lucky rascal is this Pole!"

When she had ended, there was a moment's pause, during which she left him to his reflections. As he maintained an ominous silence, she grew impatient. "Speak," she exclaimed. "I wish to know your innermost thoughts."

"I think you are adorable."

"Oh! please, do for once be serious."

"Seriously," he rejoined, "I am not certain that you are wrong, nor has it been proved to me that you are right; there remain some doubts."

She cried out eagerly: "According to this, the sole realities of this world are things that can be seen, touched, felt—a retort and its contents. Beyond this all is null and void, a lie, a cheat. Ah! your wretched retorts and crucibles! If I followed out this thought, I should be ready to break every one of them."

She cast about her as she spoke so ferocious and threatening a look, that M. Moriaz trembled for his laboratory, "I beg of you," he protested, "have mercy on my poor crucibles, my honest retorts, my innocent jars! They have nothing to do with this affair. Is it their fault that the stories you narrate to me so disturb my usual train of thoughts that I find it wholly impossible to make adroit replies?"

"You do not, then, believe in the extraordinary?"

"The extraordinary! Every time I encounter it, I salute it," replied he, drawing off his cap and bowing low; "but at the same time I demand its papers."

"Ah! there we are. I really imagined that the investigation had been made."

"It was not conclusive, since it failed to convince Mme. de Lorcy."

"Ah! who could convince Mme. de Lorcy? Do you forget how people of the world are constituted, and how they detest all that astonishes, all that exceeds their limits, all that they cannot weight with their small balances, measure with their tiny compasses?"

"Peste! you are severe on the world; I always fancied that you were fond of it."

"I do not know whether I am fond of it or not; it is certain that I scarcely should know how to live without it; but I surely may be permitted to pass an opinion on it, and I often tell myself that if Christ should reappear among us with his train of publicans and fisherman—are you listening?—that if the meek and the lowly Jesus should come to preach his Sermon on the Mount in the Boulevard des Italiens—"

"To make a show of probability," he interrupted, "suppose you were to place the scene at Montmartre. Frankly, I cannot see what possible connection there can be between the Christ and your Count Larinski; and, pray, do not let us enter into a theological discussion; you know it is wholly out of my line. Religion seems to me an excellent thing, a most useful thing, and I freely accept Christianity, minus the romantic side, with which I have no time to occupy myself. You will at least grant me that, if there are true miracles, there are also false ones. How distinguish them?"

"It is the heart that must decide," said she.

"Oh! the infallibility of the heart!" exclaimed he. "There never was council yet that voted that."

There was a pause, after which M. Moriaz resumed: "And so, my dear, you are persuaded that M. Larinski is still free, and that Mme. de Lorcy lied?"

"Not at all; if she had lied, she would not have betrayed herself so naively just now. I accuse her of deceiving herself, or rather of having wished to deceive herself. Do you know what you are going to do—I mean this evening—after dinner? You are going to order up the carriage, and you are going—"

"To Paris, Rue Mont-Thabor!" he exclaimed, bounding up in his seat. "Very good, I will put on a dress-coat, and I will say to Count Larinski: 'My dear monsieur, I come to demand your hand for my daughter, who adores you. Certain malicious tongues assert that you are no longer free; I do not believe them; besides, this would be a mere bagatelle.' On the whole, I believe you would do better to put it down in writing for me; left to myself I never will get through with it; out of my professor's chair I have considerable difficulty in finding words!"

"Dear me, how hasty you are! Who suggests such a thing? Abbe Miollens is our friend; he is a worthy man, whose testimony would be reliable."

"Now this is something like! I see what you mean. At this rate you will not need to prepare my harangue. Here we have an acceptable idea, a possible interview. This evening, after my dinner, I shall go see Abbe Miollens; but it is clearly understood, I presume, that if he confirms the sentence—"

"I shall not ask for its repeal, and I promise you that I will be courageous beyond anything that you can imagine; you shall not so much as suspect that I even regret my chimera. But, as a fair exchange, you on your side must make me a promise. If Abbe Miollens—"

"You know as well as I that you are of age."

"I know as well as you that I never will be content without your consent. Here once more as in the Engadine, I say, 'Either he or no one.'"

"Did I not warn you that when once a formula has been pronounced, one is apt to keep on repeating it forever?"

"Either he or no one: that is my last word. Would you not rather that it should be he? Are you willing to accept him?"

"I will submit."

"With a good grace?"

"With resignation."

"With cheerful resignation?"

"I shall certainly do my best to acquire it; or, rather, if he makes you happy, I shall welcome him all the days of my life; in the contrary case, I will repeat, morning and evening, like Mme. de Lorcy: 'You would not listen to me; you ought to have believed me.'"

"It is agreed; you are a good father, and now we are in perfect harmony," she replied, impulsively seizing his two hands, and pressing them in her own.

He watched her a moment between his half-closed eyes, and then he cried, half resentfully:

"But, mon Dieu why do you love this man?"

She replied, in a low voice: "Because I love him; this is my sole reason; but I find it good."

"Certainly most decisive. But, come, let us go quickly," he replied, rising. "I fear that my retorts and crucibles, if they listen to you much longer, will fall into a syncope as prolonged as that of M. Larinski. Was ever such a debate heard of in a chemical laboratory?"

As soon as dinner was over, M. Moriaz made ready to repair to Maisons, where Abbe Miollens passed the summer in the vicinity of Mme. de Lorcy. Mlle. Moiseney followed him to the carriage, and said:

"You have a remarkable daughter, monsieur! With what courage she has assumed her role! With what resolution she has renounced an impossible happiness! Did you observe her during dinner? How tranquil she was! how attentive! Is she not astonishing?"

"As astonishing as you are sagacious," he replied.

"Ah! undoubtedly; I never thought that she loved him so much as you imagine I did: but he pleased her; she admired him. Did she ever utter a word of complaint, or a sigh, on learning the cruel truth? what strength of mind! what equability of temperament! what nobility of sentiment! You do not admire her enough, monsieur; you are not proud enough of having such a daughter. As to me, I glory in having been of some value in her education. I always made a point of developing her judgment, and putting her on her guard against all erratic tendencies. Yes, I can safely say that I took great pains to cultivate and fortify her reason."

"I thank you with all my heart," rejoined M. Moriaz, leaning back in one corner of the carriage; "you can most assuredly boast of having accomplished a marvellous work; but I beg of you, mademoiselle, when you have finished your discourse, will you kindly say to the coachman that I am ready to start?"

During the drive, M. Moriaz gave himself up to the most melancholy reflections; he even tormented himself with sundry reproaches. "We have acted contrary to good sense," he thought. "Her imagination has been taken by storm; in time it would have calmed down. We should have left her to herself, to her natural defence—her own good judgment, for she has a large stock of it. I fell on the unlucky idea of calling Mme. de Lorcy to my aid, and she has spoiled everything by her boasted finesse. As soon as Antoinette had reason to suspect that her choice was condemned by us, and that we were plotting the enemy's destruction, the sympathy, mingled with admiration, which she accorded to M. Larinski, became transformed into love; the fire smouldering beneath ashes leaped up into flames. We neglected to count on that passion which is innate in women, and which phrenologists call combativeness. With her there is now a cause to be gained, and, when love unites its interests with cards or with war, it becomes irresistible. Truly our campaign is greatly jeopardized, unless Heaven or M. Larinski interfere."

Thus reasoned M. Moriaz, whom paternal misadventures and recent experiences had rendered a better psychologist than he ever had been. While busied with his reflections the carriage drove rapidly onward, and thirty-five minutes sufficed to reach the little maison de campagne occupied by Abbe Miollens. He found him in his cabinet, installed in a cushioned arm-chair embroidered by Mme. de Lorcy, slowly sipping a cup of excellent tea brought him by the missionaries from China. On his left was his violin-box, on his right his beloved Horace, Orelli's edition, Zurich, 1844.

Conversation began. As soon as M. Moriaz had pronounced the name of Count Larinski, the abbe assumed the charmed and contented countenance of a dog lying in wait for its favourite game.

He exclaimed, "A most truly admirable man!"

"Mercy upon us!" thought M. Moriaz. "Here we have an exordium strangely similar to that of Mlle. Moiseney. Do they think to condemn me to a state of perpetual admiration of their prodigy? I fear there must be some kinship of spirit between our friend the abbe and that crack-brained woman; that he is cousin-german to her at least."

"How grateful I am to you, my dear monsieur," continued Abbe Miollens, lying back in his chair, "for having given us the pleasure of the acquaintance of this rare man! It is you who sent him to us; to you belongs the merit of having discovered him, or invented him, if you choose."

"Oh! I beg of you not to exaggerate," humbly rejoined M. Moriaz. "He invented himself, I assure you."

"At all events it was you who patronized him, who made him known to us; without you the world never would have suspected the existence of this superb genius, this noble character, who was hidden from sight like the violet in the grass."

"He is unquestionably her cousin-german," thought M. Moriaz.

"Only think," continued the abbe, "I have found M. Larinski all over again in Horace! Yes, Horace has represented him, trait for trait, in the person of Lollius. You know Marcus Lollius, to whom he addressed Ode ix. of book iv., and who was consul in the year 733 after the foundation of Rome. The resemblance is striking; pay attention!"

Depositing his cup on the table he took the book in his right hand, and placing the forefinger of his left by turns on his lips or complacently following with it the lines of especial beauty in the text, he exclaimed: "Now what do you say to this? 'Thy soul is wise,' wrote Horace to Lollius, 'and resists with the same constancy the temptations of happiness as those of adversity—est animus tibi et secundis temporibus dubusque rectus.' Is not this Count Larinski? Listen further: 'Lollius detested fraud and cupidity; he despised money which seduces most men—abstinens ducentis ad se cuncta pecuniae.' This trait is very striking; I find even, between ourselves, that our dear count despises money entirely too much, he turns from it in horror, its very name is odious to him; he is an Epictetus, he is a Diogenes, he is an anchorite of ancient times who would live happily in a Thebaid. He told us himself that it made little difference to him whether he dined on a piece of bread and a glass of water, or in luxury at the Cafe Anglais. But I have not finished. 'Happy be those,' exclaimed Horace, 'who know how to suffer uncomplainingly the hardships of poverty—qui duram que callet pauperiem pati!' Of whom does he speak—of Lollius, or of our friend, who not only endures his poverty but who loves it, cherishes it as a lover adores his mistress? And the final trait, what to you think of it? Lollius was always ready to die for his country—'non ille pro patria timidus perire.' In good faith, is it not curious? Does it not seem as though Horace had known Count Larinski at Rome or at Tibur?"

"I do not doubt it for an instant," replied M. Moriaz, taking the book from the hands of Abbe Miollens and placing it respectfully on the table. "Luckily, our friend Larinski, as you call him, fell upon the excellent idea of resuscitating himself some thirty years ago, which procured for us the great joy of meeting him at Saint Moritz; and while we are on the subject—My dear abbe, have you a free, impartial mind? Can you listen to me? I have a question to propound, an elucidation to demand. It is not only the friend to whom I address myself, it is the confessor, the director of consciences, the man of the whole universe in whose discretion I place most reliance."

"I am all ears," responded the abbe, crossing the shapely legs in which he took no little pride.

M. Moriaz entered at once into the subject that troubled him. It was some moments before Abbe Miollens divined whither he was tending. As soon as he had grasped a ray of light, his face contracted, and uncrossing his limbs, he cried: "Ah, what a misfortune! You will have to renounce your delightful dream, my dear Monsieur, and, believe me, no one can be more grieved than I. I fully comprehend with what joy you would have seen your charming daughter consecrate, I will not say her fortune, for you know as well as I how little Count Larinski would care for that, but consecrate, I say, her graces, her beauty, and all the qualities of her angelic character to the happiness of a man of rare merit who has been cruelly scourged by Providence. She loves him, she is loved by him; Heaven would have blest their union. Ah, what a misfortune! I must repeat it, this marriage is impossible; our friend is already married."

"You are sure of it?" cried M. Moriaz, in a burst of enthusiasm that the good abbe mistook for an access of despair.

"I scarcely can pardon myself for causing you this pain. You ask if I am sure of it! I have it from our friend himself. One evening, apropos of I scarcely remember what, it occurred to me to ask if he were married, and he replied, briefly: 'I thought I had told you so.' Ah! my dear professor, it were needless to discuss whether such a marriage would be a happy one, for it never can take place."

"Well, now we have something positive," M. Moriaz hastened to observe, "and there is nothing to do but yield to evidence."

"Alas! yes," rejoined the abbe; and, then, after a pause, during which he wore a reflective air, he added, "However—"

"There is no 'however,' M. l'Abbe. Believe me, your word suffices."

"But I might possibly have misunderstood."

"I have entire confidence in your ears—they are excellent."

"But pray allow me to observe that it is never worth while to despair too soon. Do you know what? Count Larinski came recently to see me without finding me at home. I owe him a farewell visit. To-morrow morning, I promise you, I will call on him."

"For what purpose?" interrupted M. Moriaz. "I thank you a thousand times for your kindly intentions, but God forbid that I should uselessly interfere with your daily pursuits; your time is too precious! I declare myself completely edified. I consider the proof firmly established; there is no further doubt."

As Madame de Lorcy had remarked, Abbe Miollens was not one to easily relax his hold upon an idea he had once deemed good. In vain M. Moriaz combated his proposition, bestowing secret maledictions on his excess of zeal; the abbe would not give up, and M. Moriaz was forced to be resigned. It was agreed that the next day the worthy man should call on Count Larinski, and that from Paris he should repair to Cormeilles, in order to communicate to the proper person the result of his mission. M. Moriaz perceived the advantage of having Antoinette learn from the abbe's own lips the fatal truth; and he did not leave without impressing upon him to be very circumspect, as prudent as a serpent, as discreet as a father confessor. He started for home with quite a contented mind, seeing the future lie smoothly and pleasantly before him, and it really seemed to him that the drive from Maisons to Cormeilles was a much shorter and more agreeable one than that from Cormeilles to Maisons.

Samuel Brohl was seated before an empty trunk, which he was apparently about to pack, when he heard some one knock at his door. He went to open it and found himself face to face with Abbe Miollens. From the moment of their first meeting, Samuel Brohl had conceived for the abbe that warm sympathy, that strong liking, with which he was always inspired by people in whom he believed he recognised useful animals who might be of advantage to him, whom he considered destined to render him some essential service. He seldom mistook; he was a admirable diagnostician; he recognised at first sight the divine impress of predestination. He gave the most cordial reception to his reverend friend, and ushered him into his modest quarters with all the more empressement, because he detected at once the mysterious, rather agitated air he wore. "Does he come in the quality of a diplomatic agent, charged with some mission extraordinary?" he asked himself. On his side the abbe studied Samuel Brohl without seeming to do so. He was struck with his physiognomy, which expressed at this moment a manly yet sorrowful pride. His eyes betrayed at intervals the secret of some heroic grief that he had sworn to repress before men, and to confess to God alone.

He sat down with his guest, and they began to talk; but the abbe directed the conversation into topics of the greatest indifference. Samuel Brohl listened to him and replied with a melancholy grace. Lively as was his curiosity he well knew how to hold it in check. Samuel Brohl never had been in a hurry; during the month that had elapsed he had proved that he knew how to wait—a faculty lacking in more diplomates than one.

Abbe Miollens's call had lasted during the usual time allotted to a polite visit, and the worthy man seemed about to depart, when, pointing with his forefinger to the open valise, he remarked: "I see here preparations that grieve me. I did dream, my dear count, of inviting you to Maisons. I have a spare chamber there which I might offer to you. Hoc erat in votis, I should indeed have been happy to have had you for a guest. We should have chatted and made music to our hearts' content, close by a window opening on a garden. 'Hae latebrae dulces, etiam, si credis, amoenae.' But, alas! you are going to leave us; you do not care for the friendship accorded you here. Has Vienna such superior attractions for you? But I remember, you will doubtless be restored there to a pleasant home, a charming wife, children perhaps who——"

Samuel looked at him with an astonished, confused air, as he had viewed Mme. de Lorcy when she undertook to speak to him of the Countess Larinski. "What do you mean?" he finally asked.

"Why, did you not confide to me yourself that you were married?"

Samuel opened wide his eyes; during some moments he seemed to be in a dream; then, suddenly putting his hand to his brow and beginning to smile, he said: "Ah! I see—I see. Did you take me literally? I thought you understood what I said. No, my dear abbe, I am not married, and I never shall marry; but there are free unions as sacred, as indissoluble as marriage."

The abbe knit his brows, his countenance assumed an expression of chagrin and disapproval. He was about delivering to his dear count a sermon on the immorality and positive danger of free unions, but Samuel Brohl gave him no time. "I am not going to Vienna to rejoin my mistress," he interposed. "She never leaves me, she accompanies me everywhere; she is here."

Abbe Miollens cast about him a startled, bewildered gaze, expecting to see a woman start out of some closet or come forward from behind some curtain.

"I tell you that she is here," repeated Samuel Brohl, pointing to an alabaster statuette, posed on a piedouche. The statuette represented a woman bound tightly, on whom two Cossacks were inflicting the knout; the socle bore the inscription, "Polonia vincta et flagellata."

The abbe's countenance became transformed in the twinkling of an eye, the wrinkles smoothed away from his brow, his mouth relaxed, a joyous light shone in his eyes. "How well it is that I came!" thought he. "And under what obligations M. Moriaz will be to me!"

Turning towards Samuel he exclaimed:

"I am simply a fool; I imagined—Ah! I comprehend, your mistress is Poland; this is delightful, and it is truly a union that is as sacred as marriage. It has, besides, this advantage—that it interferes with nothing else. Poland is not jealous, and if, peradventure, you should meet a woman worthy of you whom you would like to marry, your mistress would have nothing to say against it. To speak accurately, however, she is not your mistress; one's country is one's mother, and reasonable mothers never prevent their sons from marrying."

It was now Samuel's turn to assume a stern and sombre countenance. His eye fixed upon the statuette, he replied:

"You deceive yourself, M. l'Abbe, I belong to her, I have no longer the right to dispose of either my heart, or my soul, or my life; she will have my every thought and my last drop of blood. I am bound to her by my vows quite as much, I think, as is the monk by his."

"Excuse me, my dear count," said the abbe; "this is fanaticism, or I greatly mistake. Since when have patriots come to take the vow of celibacy? Their first duty is to become the fathers of children who will become good citizens. The day when there will cease to be Poles, there will cease also to be a Poland."

Samuel Brohl interrupted him, pressing his arm earnestly, and saying:

"Look at me well; have I not the appearance of an adventurer?" The abbe recoiled. "This word shocks you?" continued Samuel. "Yes, I am a man of adventures, born to be always on my feet, and ready to start off at a moment's warning. Marriage was not instituted for those whose lives are liable at any time to be in jeopardy." With a tragic accent, he added: "You know what occurred in Bosnia. How do we know that war may not very shortly be proclaimed, and who can foresee the consequences? I must hold myself in readiness for the great day. Perhaps an inscrutable Providence may ere long offer me a new occasion to risk my life for my country; perhaps Poland will call me, crying, 'Come, I have need of thee!' If I should respond: 'I belong no more to myself, I have given my heart to a woman who holds me in chains; I have henceforth a roof, a family, a hearthstone, dear ties that I dare not break!' I ask you, M. l'Abbe, would not Poland have a right to say to me, 'Thou hast violated thy vow; thou hast denied me; upon thy head rest forever my maledictions?'"

Abbe Miollens had just taken a pinch of snuff, and he hearkened to this harangue, tapping his fingers impatiently on the lid of his handsome gold snuff-box, which had been presented to him by the most amiable of his penitents.

"If this be the way you view it," replied he, "is your conscience quite tranquil, my dear friend? for you will permit me, I trust, to call you so. Ay, is it sure that from your standpoint your conscience has no accusations to make you? Is it certain that your heart has not been unfaithful to its mistress? If I may believe a certain rumour that has reached my ear, there took place a most singular scene yesterday at the house of Mme. de Lorcy."

Samuel Brohl trembled violently; he changed colour; he buried his face in his hands, doubtless to hide from the abbe the blushes remorse had caused to mantle his cheeks. In a faint voice he murmured:

"Not a word more! you know not how deep a wound you have probed."

"It is, then, true that you love Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz?" asked the abbe.

"I have sworn that she never shall know it," replied Samuel, in accents of the most humble contrition. "Yesterday I had the unworthy weakness to betray myself. Mon Dieu! what must she have thought of me?"

As he spoke thus, his face buried in his hands, he slightly moved apart his fingers, and fixed upon the abbe two glittering eyes that, like cats' eyes, were capable of seeing clearly in the dark.

"What she thinks of you!" echoed the abbe, taking a fresh pinch of snuff. "Bah! my dear count, women never are angry when a man swoons away because of their bright eyes, especially when this man is a noble chevalier, a true knight of the Round Table. I have reason to believe that Mlle. Moriaz did not take your accident unkindly. Shall I tell you my whole thought? I should not be surprised if you had touched her heart, and that, if you take the pains, you may flatter yourself with the hope of one day being loved by her."

At this moment the voice of his worthy friend appeared to Samuel Brohl the most harmonious of all music. He felt a delicious thrill quiver through his frame. The abbe was telling him nothing he had not known before; but there are things of which we are certain, things that we have told ourselves a hundred times, and yet that seem new when told us for the first time by another.

"You are not misleading me?" ejaculated Samuel Brohl, overwhelmed with joy, transported beyond himself. "Can it really be true!—One day I may flatter myself—one day she may judge me worthy—Ah! what a glorious vision you cause to pass before my eyes! How good and cruel together you are to me! What bitterness is intermingled with the ineffable sweetness of your words! No, I never could have believed that there could be so much joy in anguish, so much anguish in joy."

"What would you imply, my dear count?" interposed Abbe Miollens. "Have you need of a negotiator? I can boast of having had some experience in that line. I am wholly at your service."

These words calmed Samuel Brohl. Quickly recovering himself, he coldly rejoined:

"A negotiator? What occasion would I have for a negotiator? Do not delude me with a chimera, and above all do not tempt me to sacrifice my honour to it. This height of felicity that you offer to me I must renounce forever; I have told you why."

Abbe Miollens was at first inclined to be indignant; he even took the liberty to rebuke, to expostulate with his noble friend. He endeavoured to prove to him that his principles were too rigorous, that such a thing is possible as exaggeration in virtue, too great refinement in delicacy of conscience. He represented to him that noble souls should beware of exaltation of sentiment. He cited the Gospels, he cited Bossuet, he also cited his well-beloved Horace, who censored all that was ultra or excessive, and recommended the sage to flee all extremities. His reasoning was weak against the unwavering resolution of Samuel, who resisted, with the firmness of a rock, all his remonstrances, and finally ended these with the words:

"Peace, I implore you! Respect my folly, which is surely wisdom in the eyes of God. I repeat it to you, I am no longer free, and, even if I were, do you not know that there is between Mlle. Moriaz and myself an insurmountable barrier?"

"And pray, what is that?" demanded the abbe.

"Her fortune and my pride," said Samuel. "She is rich, I am poor; this adorable being is not made for me. I told Mme. de Lorcy one day what I thought of this kind of alliances, or, to speak more clearly, of bargains. Yes, my revered friend, I love Mlle. Moriaz with an ardour of passion with which I reproach myself as though it were a crime. Nothing remains to me but to avoid seeing her, and I never will see her again. Let me follow to its end my solitary and rugged path. One consolation will accompany me: I can say that happiness has not been denied to me: that it is my conscience, admonished from on high, which has refused to accept it, and there is a divine sweetness in great trials religiously accepted. Believe me, it is God who speaks to me, as he spoke to me of old in San Francisco, to enjoin me to forsake everything and give my blood for my country. I recognise his voice, which to-day bids my heart be silent and immolate itself on the altar of its chosen cause. God and Poland! Beyond this, my watch-word, I have no longer the right to yield to anything."

And, turning towards the statuette, he exclaimed: "It is at her feet that I lay down my dolorous offering; she it is who will cure my bruised and broken heart."

Samuel Brohl spoke in a voice thrilling with emotion; the breath of the Divine Spirit seemed to play through his hair, and make his eyes grow humid. The eyes of the good abbe also grew moist: he was profoundly moved; he gazed with veneration upon this hero; he was filled with respect for this antique character, for this truly celestial soul. He never had seen anything like it, either in the odes or in the epistles of Horace. Lollius himself was surpassed. Transported with admiration, he opened wide his arms to Samuel Brohl, spreading them out their full length, as though otherwise they might fail to accomplish their object, and, clasping him to his bosom, he cried:

"Ah! my dear count, how grand you are! You are immense as the world!"



CHAPTER VIII

Abbe Miollens hastened to repair to Cormeilles, where he gave a faithful circumstantial account of his conference with Count Larinski. He was still warm from the interview, and he gave free vent to the effusions of his enthusiasm. He struck up a Canticle of Zion in honour of the antique soul, the celestial soul, which had just been revealing to him all its hidden treasures. M. Moriaz, both astonished and scandalized, observed, dryly:

"You are right, this Pole is a prodigy; he should either be canonized or hanged, I do not know which."

Antoinette said not a word; she kept her reflections to herself. She retired to her chamber, where she paced to and fro for some time, uncertain regarding what she was about to do, or, rather more restless than uncertain. Several times she approached her writing-table, and gazed earnestly at her inkstand; then, seized with a sudden scruple, she would move away. At last she formed a resolute decision, seized her pen, and wrote the following lines:

"MONSIEUR: Before setting out for Vienna, will you be so good as to come and pass some moments at Cormeilles? I desire to have a conversation with you in the presence of my father.

"Accept, monsieur, I beg of you, the expression of my most profound esteem.

"ANTOINETTE MORIAZ."

The next morning she received by the first mail the response she awaited, and which was thus fashioned:

"This test would be more than my courage could endure. I never shall see you again, for, should I do so, I would be a lost man."

This short response caused Mlle. Moriaz a disappointment full of bitterness, and blended with no little wrath. She held in her hand a pencil, which she deliberately snapped in two, apparently to console herself for not having broken the proud and obstinate will of Count Abel Larinski. And yet can one break iron or a diamond? The carrier had brought her at the same time another letter, which she opened mechanically, merely to satisfy her conscience. She ran through the first lines without succeeding in comprehending a single word that she read. Suddenly her attention became riveted, her face brightened up, her eyes kindled. This letter, which a kind Providence had sent her as a supreme resource in her distress, was from the hand of Mlle. Galet, and here was what this retired florist of the Rue Mouffetard wrote:

"MA CHERE DEMOISELLE: I learn that you have returned. What happiness for me! and how I long to see you! You are my good angel, whom I should like to see every day of my life, and the time has seemed so long to me without you. When you enter the garret of the poor, infirm old woman, it seems to her as though there were three suns in the heavens; when you abandon her, the blackness of midnight surrounds her. Mme. de Lorcy has been very good to me. As my angel requested her, she came a fortnight since to pay me the quarter due of my pension. She is a very charitable lady, and she dresses beautifully; but she is a little hard on poor people. She asks a great many questions; she wants to know everything. She reproached me with spending too much, being too fond of luxury, and you know how that is. She forgets that everything is higher priced than it used to be, that meat and vegetables are exorbitant, and that just now eggs cost one franc and fifty centimes a dozen. Besides, a poor creature, deprived of the use of her limbs, as I am, cannot go to market herself, and it is quite possible that my femme de menage does not purchase as wisely as she might. I know I have great scenes with her sometimes for bringing me early vegetables; le bon Dieu can, at least, bear me witness that I am no glutton.

"The good Mme. de Lorcy scolded me about a bouquet of camellias she saw on my table, just like those for which I have been grateful to my angel. I don't know what notions she got into her head about them. Ah! well, ma chere demoiselle, I have learned since that these double camellias—they are variegated, red and white—came to me from a man, for, at present, as it would appear, men have taken to give me bouquets and making me visits; it is rather late in the day. The particular man to whom I refer presented himself one fine morning, and, telling me that you had spoken to him of me, said that he wished to assure himself that I was well and wanted nothing. He returned several times, always pampering me with some attention or other. But the best of all was when he came to tell me that my angel had returned. What a man he is! he has surely dropped right down from the skies! One evening when I was sick he gave me my medicine himself, and would have sat up with me all night if I had been willing to let him. You must tell me who he is, for it puzzles me greatly. He has the head of some grand lion; he is as generous as he is handsome, but very sad. He must have some great sorrow on his heart. The misfortune, so far as I am concerned, is that he cannot spoil me much longer—it is almost over now. He expects to leave here in two days; and he has announced to me that he will come to make his adieus, to-morrow afternoon.

"You will come soon, won't you, ma chere demoiselle? I burn with impatience to embrace you, since you permit me to embrace you. You are my angel and my sunshine, and I am your very humble and devoted servant,