"That was revolting ingratitude," interrupted Antoinette, "and your good work, madame, was poorly recompensed; but I do not see what relation Samuel Brohl can have to my marriage."

"You are too impatient, my darling. If you had given me time I would have told you that I had had the very unexpected pleasure of dining yesterday with him at Mme. de Lorcy's. This German has made great advances since I lost sight of him; not content with becoming a Pole, he is now a person of vast importance. He is called Count Abel Larinski, and he is to marry very soon Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz."

The blood rushed into Antoinette's cheeks, and her eyes flashed fire. Princess Gulof entirely mistook the sentiment that animated her, and said: "My dear, don't be angry, don't be indignant, your indignation will not help you at all. Without doubt, a rascal capable of deceiving such a charming girl as you deserves death ten times over; but be careful not to make an exposure! My dear, scandal always splashes mud over every one concerned, and there is a rather vulgar but exceedingly sensible Turkish proverb that says that the more garlic is crushed, the stronger becomes its odour. Believe me, you would not come off without a tinge of ridicule; certain mistakes always appear a little ridiculous, and it is useless to proclaim them to the universe. Thank Heaven! you are not yet the Countess Larinski—I arrived in time to save you. Be silent about the discovery you have just made; by no means mention it to Samuel Brohl, and seek a proper pretext to break with him. You would not be a woman if you could not find ten for one."

Mlle. Moriaz could no longer refrain her anger. "Madame," she exclaimed excitedly, "will you declare to M. Larinski, in my presence, that his name is Samuel Brohl?"

"I made that declaration to him yesterday—it is useless to repeat it. He was nearer dead than alive, and I was truly sorry for the state into which I had thrown him. I cannot disguise from myself that I am the cause of all this; why did I take the boy from his father's tavern and his natal mud? Perhaps there he would have remained honest. It was I who launched him into the world and gave him the desire to advance, I put the trump-cards into his hand, but he found that he could not win fast enough by fair play, so he ended by cheating. It is not my place to overwhelm the poor devil—we owe some consideration to those who are under obligations to us; and, once more, I desire not to appear further in this business. Promise me that Samuel Brohl never will be informed of the measures I have taken."

She replied, in a haughty tone: "I promise you, madame, that I never will do Count Larinski the wrong to repeat to him a single word of the very likely story you have related to me."

The princess rose hastily, remained standing before Mlle. Moriaz, and contemplated her in silence; finally she said, in tones of the most cutting sarcasm: "Ah! you do not believe me, my dear. Decidedly you do not believe me. You are right; you should not put faith in an old woman's childish chatter. No, my darling, there is no Samuel Brohl: I dined yesterday at Maisons with the most authentic of Counts Larinski, and nothing remains for me to say but to present my best wishes for the certain happiness of the Countess Larinski, et cetera—of the Countess Larinski and company."

With these words she bowed, turned on her heels, and disappeared.

Mlle. Moriaz remained an instant as if stunned by a blow. She questioned herself as to whether she had not seen a vision, or had had the nightmare. Was it, indeed, a Russian princess of flesh and blood who had just been there, who had been seated close beside her, and had conversed so strangely with her that the belfry of Cormeilles could not hear it without falling into a profound stupor? In fact, the belfry of Cormeilles had become silent, its bells no longer rang; an appalling silence reigned for two leagues round.

Antoinette soon controlled her emotions. "The day before yesterday," she thought, "this woman appeared to me to be deranged: she is a lunatic; I wish that Abel were here, he could tell me what happened at dinner between him and this dotard, and we should laugh over it together. Perhaps nothing happened at all. The Princess Gulof should be confined. They do very wrong to let maniacs like that go at large. It is dangerous; the bells of Cormeilles have ceased ringing. Ah! bon Dieu, who knows? Mme. de Lorcy surely has a hand in this business; it is the result of some grand plot. How many acts are there in the play? Here we are at the second or third; but there are some jokes that are very provoking. I shall end by being seriously angry."

Princess Gulof appeared to have entirely failed in her object. It seemed to Mlle. Moriaz that for the last twenty minutes she loved Count Larinski more than ever before.

The hour drew near; he was on the way; she had never been so impatient to see him. She saw some one at the end of the terrace. It was M. Camille Langis, who was going towards the laboratory.

He turned his head, retraced his steps, and came to her. M. Moriaz had asked him to translate two pages of a German memoir which he had not been able to understand. Camille was bringing the translation; perhaps that was the reason of his coming back to Cormeilles after two days; perhaps, too, it was only a pretext.

Mlle. Moriaz could not help thinking that his visit was inopportune; that he had chose an unfortunate time for it. "If the count finds him still here," thought she, "I am not afraid that he will make a scene, but all his pleasure will be spoiled." There was a tinge of coldness in her welcome to M. Langis, of which he was sensible.

"I am in the way," he said, making a movement to retire.

She kept him, and altered her tone: "You are never in the way, Camille. Sit there."

He seated himself, and talked of the races at Chantilly, that he had attended the day before.

She listened to him, bowed her head in sign of approval; but she heard his voice through a mist that veiled her senses. She lifted her hand to brush away a wasp that annoyed her by its buzzing. The lace of her cuff, in falling back, left her wrist exposed.

"What a curious bracelet you have!" said M. Langis.

"Have you not seen it before?" she replied. "It is some time since——"

She interrupted herself, a sudden idea occurring to her. She looked at her wrist. This bracelet from which she never was parted—this bracelet that Count Larinski had given to her—this bracelet that he loved because it had belonged to his mother, and that the late Countess Larinski had worn as long as she lived—resembled none other; but Mlle. Moriaz observed that it had a strong resemblance to the Persian bracelet that the Princess Gulof had described to her, and which she had exchanged for Samuel Brohl. The three gold plates, the grotesque animals, the filigree network—nothing was wanting. She took it from her arm and handed it to M. Langis, saying to him: "There is, it seems, something written on the interior of one of these plates; but you must know the secret to be able to open it. Can you guess secrets?"

He carefully examined the bracelet. "Two of these plates," said he, "are solid, and of heavy gold; the third is hollow, and might serve as a case. I see a little hinge that is almost invisible; but I seek in vain for the secret—I cannot find it."

"Is the hinge strong?"

"Not very, and the lid easily could be forced open."

"That is what I want you to do," she rejoined.

"What are you thinking of? I would not spoil a trinket that you value."

She replied: "I have made the acquaintance of a Russian princess who has a mania for physiology and dissection. I have caught the disease, and I want to begin to dissect. I am fond of this trinket, but I want to know what is inside. Do as I tell you," she continued. "You will find in the laboratory the necessary instruments. Go; the key is in the door."

He consulted her look; her eye was burning, her voice broken, and she repeated: "Go—go! Do you not understand me?"

He obeyed, went to the laboratory, taking the bracelet with him. After five minutes he returned saying: "I am very unskilful; I crushed the lid in raising it; but you wished it, and your curiosity will be satisfied."

She could, in truth, satisfy her curiosity. She eagerly seized the bracelet, and on the back of the plate, now left bare, she saw engraved in the gold, characters almost microscopic in size. Through the greatest attention she succeeded in deciphering them. She distinguished several dates, marking the year, the month, and the day, when some important event had occurred to the Princess Gulof. These dates, accompanied by no indication of any kind, formerly sufficed to recall the principal experiments that she had practised on mankind before having discovered Samuel Brohl. The result had not been very cheerful, for beneath this form of calendar stood a confession of faith, thus expressed, "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity!" This melancholy declaration was signed, and the signature was perfectly legible. Mlle. Moriaz spelled it out readily, although at that moment her sight was dim, and she was convinced that the trinket, which Count Larinski had presented to her as a family relic, had belonged to Anna Petrovna, Princess Gulof.

She grew mortally pale, and lost consciousness; she seemed on the verge of an attack of delirium. In the agitation of her mind, she imagined that she saw herself at a great distance, at the end of the world, and very small; she was climbing a mountain, on the other side of which there was a man awaiting her. She questioned herself, "Am I, or is this traveller, Mlle. Moriaz?" She closed her eyes, and saw a blank abyss open before her, in which her life was ingulfed, whirled about, like the leaf of a tree in a whirlpool.

M. Langis drew near her, and, lightly slapping the palms of her hands, said, "What is the matter?"

She roused herself, made an effort to lift her head, and let it sink again. The trouble that lay in the depths of her heart choked her; she experienced an irresistible need of confiding in some one, and she judged that the man who was talking to her was one of those men to whom a woman can tell her secret, one of those souls to whom she could pour out her shame without blushing. She began, in a broken voice, a confused, disconnected recital that Camille could scarcely follow. However, he finally understood; he felt himself divided between an immense pity for her despair, and a fierce lover's joy that tightened his throat and well-nigh strangled him.

The belfry of Cormeilles had recovered its voice; two o'clock rang out on the air. Antoinette rose and exclaimed: "I was to meet him at the pretty little gate that you see from here! He will have the right to be angry if I keep him waiting."

At once she hastened towards the balustered steps that led from the terrace to the orchard. M. Langis followed her, seeking to detain her. "You need not see him again," said he. "I will meet him. Pray, charge me with your explanations."

She repelled him and replied, in a voice of authority: "I wish to see him, no one but I can say to him what I have in my heart. I command you to remain here; I intend that he shall blame no one but me." She added with a curl of the lips meant for a smile: "You must remember, I do not believe yet that I have been deceived; I will not believe it until I have read the lie in his eyes."

She hastily descended into the orchard, and, during five minutes, her eye fixed on the gate, she waited for Samuel Brohl. Her impatience counted the seconds, and yet Mlle. Moriaz could have wished the gate would never open. There was near by an old apple-tree that she loved; in the old days she had more than once suspended her hammock from one of its arched and drooping branches. She leaned against the gnarled trunk of the old tree. It seemed to her that she was not alone; some one protected her.

At last the gate opened and admitted Samuel Brohl, who had a smile on his lips. His first words were: "And your umbrella! You have forgotten it?"

She replied: "Do you not see that there is no sunshine?" And she remained leaning against the apple-tree.

He uplifted his hand to show her the blue sky; he let it fall again. He looked at Antoinette, and he was afraid. He guessed immediately that she knew all. At once he grew audacious.

"I spent a dull day yesterday," said he. "Mme. de Lorcy invited me to dine with a crazy woman; but the night made up for it. I saw Engadine in my dreams—the firs, the Alpine pines, the emerald lakes, and a red hood."

"I, too, dreamed last night. I dreamed that the bracelet you gave me belonged to the crazy woman of whom you speak, and that she had her name engraved on it."

She threw him the bracelet: he picked it up, examined it, turned and returned it in his trembling fingers. She grew impatient. "Look at the place that has been forced open. Don't you know how to read?"

He read, and became stupefied. Who would have believed that this trinket that he had found among his father's old traps had come to him from Princess Gulof? that it was the price she had paid for Samuel Brohl's ignominy and shame? Samuel was a fatalist; he felt that his star had set, that Fate had conspired to ruin his hopes, that he was found guilty and condemned. His heart grew heavy within him.

"Can you tell me what I ought to think of a certain Samuel Brohl?" she asked.

That name, pronounced by her, fell on him like a mass of lead; he never would have believed that there could be so much weight in a human word. He trembled under the blow; then he struck his brow with his clinched hand and replied:

"Samuel Brohl is a man as worthy of your pity as he is of mine. If you knew all that he has suffered, all that he has dared, you could not help deeply pitying him and admiring him. Listen to me; Samuel Brohl is an unfortunate man—"

"Or a wretch!" she interrupted, in a terrible voice. She was seized by a fit of nervous laughter; she cried out: "Mme. Brohl! I will not be called Mme. Brohl. Ah! that poor Countess Larinski!"

He had a spasm of rage that would have terrified her had she conjectured what agitated him. He raised his head, crossed his arms on his breast, and said, with a bitter smile:

"It was not the man that you loved, it was the count."

She replied, "The man whom I loved never lied."

"Yes, I lied!" he cried, gasping for breath. "I drank that cup of shame without remorse or disgust. I lied because I loved you madly. I lied because you were dearer to me than my honour. I lied because I despaired of touching your heart, and any road seemed good that led to you. Why did I meet you? why could I not see you without recognising in you the dream of my whole life? Happiness had passed me by, it was about to take flight; I caught it in a trap—I lied. Who would not lie, to be loved by you?"

Samuel Brohl never had looked so handsome. Despair and passion kindled a sombre flame in his eyes; he had the sinister charm of a fiery Satan. He fixed on Antoinette a fascinating glance that said: "What matter my name, my lies, and the rest? My face is not a mask, and I am the man who pleased you." He had not the least suspicion of the astonishing facility with which Antoinette had taken back the heart that she had given away so easily; he did not suspect that miracles can be wrought by contempt. In the middle ages people believed in golems, figures in clay of an entrancing beauty, which had all the appearance of life. Under a lock of hair was written, in Hebrew characters, on their brow, the word "Truth." If they chanced to lie, the word was obliterated; they lost all their charm, the clay was no longer anything but clay.

Mlle. Moriaz divined Samuel Brohl's thought; she exclaimed: "The man I loved was he whose history you related to me."

He would have liked to kill her, so that she never should belong to another. Behind Antoinette, not twenty steps distant, he descried the curb of a well, and grew dizzy at the sight. He discovered, with despair, that he was not made of the stuff for crime. He dropped down on his knees in the grass, and cried, "If you will not pardon me, nothing remains for me but to die!" She stood motionless and impassive. She repeated between her teeth Camille Langis's phrase: "I am waiting until this great comedian has finished playing his piece."

He rose and started to run towards the well. She was in front of him and barred the passage, but at the same moment she felt two hands clasp her waist, and the breath of two lips that sought her lips and that murmured, "You love me still, since you do not want me to die."

She struggled with violence and horror; she succeeded, by a frantic effort, in disengaging herself from his grasp. She fled towards the house. Samuel Brohl rushed after her in mad pursuit; he was just reaching her, when he suddenly stopped. He had caught sight of M. Langis, hurrying from out a thicket, where he had been hidden. Growing uneasy, he had approached the orchard through a path concealed by the heavy foliage. Antoinette, out of breath, ran to him, gasping, "Camille, save me from this man!" and she threw herself into his arms, which closed about her with delight. He felt her sink; she would have fallen had he not supported her.

At the same instant a menacing voice saluted him with the words, "Monsieur, we will meet again!"

"To-day, if you will," he replied.

Antoinette's wild excitement had given place to insensibility; she neither saw nor heard; her limbs no longer sustained her. Camille had great difficulty in bringing her to the house; she could not ascend the steps of the terrace; he was obliged to carry her. Mlle. Moiseney saw him, and filled the air with her cries. She ran forward, she lavished her best care on her queen. All the time she was busy in bringing her to her senses she was asking Camille for explanations, to which she did not pay the least attention; she interrupted him at every word to exclaim: "This has been designed, and you are at the bottom of the plot. I have suspected you—you owe Antoinette a grudge. Your wounded vanity never has recovered from her refusal, and you are determined to be revenged. Perhaps you flatter yourself that she will end by loving you. She does not love you, and she never will love you. Who are you, to dare compare yourself with Count Larinski? Be silent! Do I believe in Samuel Brohl? I do not know Samuel Brohl. I venture my head that there is no such person as Samuel Brohl."

"Not much of a venture, mademoiselle," replied M. Moriaz, who had arrived in the meantime.

Antoinette remained during an hour in a state of mute languor; then a violent fever took possession of her. When the physician who had been sent for arrived, M. Langis accompanied him into the chamber of the sick girl. She was delirious: seated upright, she kept continually passing her hand over her brow; she sought to efface the taint of a kiss she had received one moonlight night, and the impression in her hair of the flapping of a bat's wings that had caught in her hood. These two things were confounded in her memory. From time to time she said: "Where is my portrait? Give me my portrait."

It was about ten o'clock when M. Langis called on Samuel Brohl, who was not astonished to see him appear; he had hoped he would come. Samuel had regained self-possession. He was calm and dignified. However, the tempest through which he had gone had left on his features some vestige of its passage. His lips quivered, and his beautiful chestnut locks curled like serpents about his temples, and gave his head a Medusa-like appearance.

He said to Camille: "Where and when? Our seconds will undertake the arrangement of the rest."

"You mistake, monsieur, the motive of my visit," replied M. Langis. "I am grieved to destroy your illusions, but I did not come to arrange a meeting with you."

"Do you refuse to give me satisfaction?"

"What satisfaction do I owe you?"

"You insulted me."

"When?"

"And you said: 'The day, the place, the weapons. I leave all to your choice.'"

M. Langis could not refrain from smiling. "Ah! you at last acknowledge that your fainting-fit was comedy?" he rejoined.

"Acknowledge on your part," replied Samuel, "that you insult persons when you believe that they are not in a state to hear you. Your courage likes to take the safe side."

"Be reasonable," replied Camille. "I placed myself at Count Larinski's disposal: you cannot require me to fight with a Samuel Brohl!"

Samuel sprang to his feet; with fierce bearing and head erect he advanced to the young man, who awaited him unflinchingly, and whose resolute manner awed him. He cast upon him a sinister look, turned, and reseated himself, bit his lips until the blood came; then said in a placid voice:

"Will you do me the favour of telling me, monsieur, to what I owe the honour of this visit?"

"I came to demand of you a portrait that Mlle. Moriaz is desirous of having returned."

"If I refuse to give it up, you will doubtless appeal to my delicacy?"

"Do you doubt it?" ironically replied Camille.

"That proves, monsieur, that you still believe in Count Larinski; that it is to him you speak at this moment?"

"You deceive yourself. I came to see Samuel Brohl, who is a business-man, and it is a commercial transaction that I intend to hold with him." And drawing from his pocket a porte-monnaie, he added: "You see I do not come empty-handed."

Samuel settled himself in his arm-chair. Half closing his eyes, he watched M. Langis through his eye-lashes. A change passed over his features; his nose became more crooked, and his chin more pointed; he no longer resembled a lion, he was a fox. His lips wore the sugared smile of a usurer, one who lays snares for the sons of wealthy families, and who scents out every favourable case. If at this moment Jeremiah Brohl had seen him from the other world, he would have recognised his own flesh and blood.

He said at last to Camille: "You are a man of understanding, monsieur; I am ready to listen to you."

"I am very glad of it, and, to speak frankly, I had no doubts about it. I knew you to be very intelligent, very much disposed to make the best of an unpleasant conjuncture."

"Ah! spare my modesty. I thank you for your excellent opinion of me; I should warn you that I am accused of being greedy after gain. You will leave some of the feathers from your wings between my fingers."

For a reply M. Langis significantly patted the porte-monnaie which he held in his hand, and which was literally stuffed with bank-notes. Immediately Samuel took from a locked drawer a casket, and proceeded to open it.

"This is a very precious gem," he said. "The medallion is gold, and the work on the miniature is exquisite. It is a master-piece—the colour equals the design. The mouth is marvellously rendered. Mengs or Liotard could not have done better. At what do you value this work of art?"

"You are more of a connoisseur than I. I will leave it to your own valuation."

"I will let you have the trinket for five thousand francs; it is almost nothing."

Camille began to draw out the five thousand francs from his porte-monnaie. "How prompt you are!" remarked Samuel. "The portrait has not only a value as a work of art; I am sure you attach a sentimental value to it, for I suspect you of being head and ears in love with the original."

"I find you too greedy," replied Camille, casting on him a crushing glance.

"Do not be angry. I am accustomed to exercise methodical precision in business affairs. My father always sold at a fixed price, and I, too, never lower my charges. You will readily understand that what is worth five thousand francs to a friend is worth double to a lover. This gem is worth ten thousand francs. You can take it or leave it."

"I will take it," replied M. Langis.

"Since we agree," continued Samuel, "I possess still other articles which might suit you."

"Why, do you think of selling me your clothing?"

"Let us come to an understanding. I have other articles of the same lot."

And he brought from a closet the red hood, which he spread out on the table.

"Here is an article of clothing—to use your own words—that may be of interest to you. Its colour is beautiful; if you saw it in the sunshine, it would dazzle you. I grant that the stuff is common—it is very ordinary cashmere—but if you deign to examine it closely, you will be struck by the peculiar perfume that it exhales. The Italians call it 'l'odor femminino.'"

"And what is your rate of charge for the 'odor femminino?'"

"I will be moderate. I will let you have this article and its perfume for five thousand francs. It is actually giving it away."

"Assuredly. We will say ten and five—that makes fifteen thousand."

"One moment. You can pay for all together. I have other things to offer you. One would say that the floor burned your feet, and that you could not endure being in this room."

"I allow that I long to leave this—what shall I say?—this shop, lair, or den."

"You are young, monsieur; it never does to hurry; haste causes us acts of forgetfulness that we afterwards regret. You would be sorry not to take away with you these two scraps of paper."

At these words he drew from his note-book two letters, which he unfolded.

"Is there much more?" demanded Camille. "I fear that I shall become short of funds, and be obliged to go back for more."

"Ah! these two letters, I will not part with them for a trifle, the second especially. It is only twelve lines in length; but what pretty English handwriting! Only see! and the style is loving and tender. I will add that it is signed. Ah! monsieur, Mlle. Moriaz will be charmed to see these scrawls again. Under what obligations she will be to you! You will make the most of it; you will tell her that you wrested them from me, your dagger at my throat—that you terrified me. With what a gracious smile she will reward your heroism! According to my opinion, that smile is as well worth ten thousand francs as the medallion—the two gems are of equal value."

"If you want more, it makes no difference."

"No, monsieur; I have told you I have only one price."

"At this rate, it is twenty-five thousand francs that I owe you. You have nothing more to sell me?"

"Alas! that is all."

"Will you swear it?"

"What, monsieur! you admit, then, that Samuel Brohl has a word of honour—that when he has sworn, he can be believed?"

"You are right; I am still very young."

"That is all, then, I swear to you," affirmed Samuel, sighing. "My shop is poorly stocked; I had begun laying in a supply, but an unfortunate accident deranged my little business."

"Bah! be consoled," replied M. Langis; "you will find another opportunity; a genius of such lofty flights as yours never is at a loss. You have been unfortunate; some day Fortune will compensate you for the wrongs she has done you, and the world will accord justice to your fine talents."

Speaking thus, he laid on the table twenty-five notes of a thousand francs each. He counted them; Samuel counted them after him, and at once delivered to him the medallion, the hood, and the two letters.

Camille rose to leave. "Monsieur Brohl," he said, "from the first day I saw you, I formed the highest opinion of your character. The reality surpasses my expectations. I am charmed to have made your acquaintance, and I venture to hope that you are not sorry to have made mine. However, I shall not say, au revoir."

"Who knows?" replied Samuel, suddenly changing his countenance and attitude. And he added, "If you are fond of being astonished, monsieur, will you remain still another instant in this den?"

He rolled and twisted the twenty-five one-thousand-franc notes into lamp-lighters; then, with a grand gesture, a la Poniatowski, he approached the candle, held them in the flame until they blazed, and then threw them on the hearth, where they were soon consumed.

Turning towards M. Langis, he cried, "Will you now do me the honour of fighting with me?"

"After such a noble act as that, I can refuse you nothing," returned Camille. "I will do you that signal honour."

"Just what I desire," replied Samuel. "I am the offended; I have the choice of arms." And, in showing M. Langis out, he said, "I will not conceal from you that I have frequented the shooting-galleries, and that I am a first-class pistol-shot."

Camille bowed and went out.

The next day, in a lucid interval, Mlle. Moriaz saw at the foot of her bed a medallion laid on a red hood. From that moment the physician announced an improvement in her symptoms.



CHAPTER XII

Six days after these events, Samuel Brohl, having passed through Namur and Liege without stopping at either place, arrived by rail at Aix-la-Chapelle. He went directly to the Hotel Royal, close to the railroad-station; he ordered a hearty dinner to be served him, which he washed down with foaming champagne. He had an excellent appetite; his soul kept holiday; his heart was expanded, inflated with joy, and his brain intoxicated. He had revenged himself; he had meted out justice to that insolent fellow, his rival. Mlle. Moriaz did not belong to Samuel Brohl, but she never would belong to Camille Langis. Near the Franco-Belgian frontier, on the verge of a forest, a man had been shot in the breast; Samuel Brohl had seen him fall; and some one had cried, "He is dead!" It is asserted that Aix-la-Chapelle is a very dull city, that the very dogs suffer so sadly from ennui that they piteously beg passers-by to kick them, with a view to having a little excitement. Samuel never felt one moment's ennui during the evening that he spent in Charlemagne's city. He had constantly in mind a certain spot in a forest, and a man falling; and he experienced a thrill of delight.

After the champagne, he drank punch, an after that he slept like a dormouse; unfortunately, sleep dissipated his exhilaration, and when he awoke his gaiety had left him. He had the fatal custom of reflecting; his reflections saddened him; he was revenged, but what then? He thought for a long while of Mlle. Moriaz; he gazed with melancholy eye at his two hands, which had allowed her and good fortune to elude their grasp.

He recited in a low voice some German verses, signifying:

"I have resolved to bury my songs and my dreams; bring me a large coffin. Why is this coffin so heavy? Because in it with my dreams I have laid away my love and my sorrows."

When he had recited these verses Samuel felt sadder than before, and he cursed the poets. "They did me great harm," he said, bitterly. "Without them I had spent days interwoven with gold and silk. My future was secure: it was they who gave me a distaste for my position. I believed in them; I was the dupe of their hollow declamation; they taught me thoughtless contempt, and they gave me the sickly ambition to play the silly part of a man of fine sentiments. I despised the mud. Where am I now?"

He had formed the project of going to Holland and of embarking thence for America. What would he do in the United States? He did not know yet. He passed in review all the professions that at all suited him; they all required an outlay for first expenses. Thanks to God and to M. Guldenthal, whose loan was in the greatest danger, he was not destitute of all supplies. But a week previous he had held into the flames and burned twenty-five one-thousand-franc bills of the Bank of France. He felt some remorse for the act; he could not help thinking that a revenge that cost twenty-five thousand francs was an article of luxury of which poor devils should deprive themselves. In thinking over this adventure, it seemed to him that it was another than himself who had burned those bills, or at least that he had mechanically executed this auto-da-fe through a sort of thoughtless impulse, like a puppet moved by an invisible string. Suddenly the phantom with whom he had had frequent conversations appeared, and there was a sneer on its lips. Samuel addressed it once more—this was to be the last time; he said:

"Imbecile! You are my evil genius. It was you who caused me to commit this extravagance. You yourself lighted the candle, you put the bills into my hands, you guided my arm, extended it, held it above the fatal flame. This act of supreme heroism was your work; it is not I, it is you, who paid so dearly for the pleasure of astonishing one who wantonly insulted me, and of killing him. Cursed forever be the day when I assumed your name, and when I conceived the foolish notion of becoming your second self! I made myself a Pole: did Poland ever have the least idea of government? You of all men were the most incapable of making your way; I aped a poor model indeed. Abel Larinski, I break off all connection with you; I wind up the affairs of our firm, I put the key under the door, or drop it down the well. O my great Pole! I return to you your title, your name, and with your name all that you gave me—your pride, your pretensions, your dangerous delicacy, your attitudes, your sentimental grimaces, and your waving plume."

It was thus that Samuel Brohl took a decisive farewell of Count Abel Larinski, who might henceforth rest quietly in his grave; there was no further danger of a dead man being compromised by a living one. What name did Samuel Brohl mean now to assume? Out of spite to his destiny, he chose for the time the humblest of all; he decided to call himself Kicks, which was his mother's name.

His melancholy would have known no bounds, had he suspected that Camille Langis was still in the world. Camille Langis for two weeks lay between life and death, but the ball had finally been successfully extracted. Mme. de Lorcy hastened to Mons and nursed him like a mother; she had the joy of bringing him back alive to Paris.

Care was taken that no mention of the duel should be made to Mlle. Moriaz, and not a word concerning it reached her; her condition for a long time caused the gravest anxiety. After she became convalescent she remained sunk in a gloomy, taciturn sadness. She never made the least allusion to what had passed, and would not permit any one to speak of it to her. She had been deceived, and a mortification, mingled with dread, was the result of her mistake. It seemed to her that nothing remained in life for her but remembrance and silence.

Towards the end of November, M. Moriaz proposed to her that they should return to Paris. She expressed her desire not to leave Cormeilles—to pass the winter in solitude; the human face terrified her. M. Moriaz tried to represent to her that she was unreasonable.

"Will you wear eternal mourning for a stranger?" he asked; "for, in reality, the man that you loved you never saw. Ah! mon Dieu, you deceived, you deluded yourself. Is there, I will not say a single woman, but a single member of the Institute, who has not once been grossly imposed on? It is through the means of failures in experiments that science progresses."

And he rose to still higher considerations; he endeavoured to prove to her that, if it is bad to have erred, an excessive fear of erring is a still worse evil, because it is better to lose one's way than not to walk at all.

When he had finished his harangue, she said, shaking her head, "I have no longer faith in any one."

"What! not even in the brave fellow to whom you owe the recovery of your portrait and your letters?"

"Of whom do you speak?" she exclaimed.

Then he declared to her how M. Langis had effected the descent into the den, without telling her what had resulted therefrom.

"Ah! that was kind, very kind," she said. "I never doubted that Camille was a true friend."

"A friend? Are you very sure that it is only friendship that he feels for you?"

Whereupon M. Moriaz told her all the rest. She grew pensive and sank into a reverie. Suddenly the door of the salon opened, and Camille entered. After inquiring after her health, he informed her that in consequence of a cold he, too, had been sick; and, as he was now free from business engagements, his physician was sending him to pass the winter in Sorrento.

She replied: "That is a journey that I would like to make. Will you take me with you?"

She gazed fixedly at him; there was everything in her gaze. He bent his knee before her, and for some moments they remained hand-in-hand, and eye to eye. In the midst of this, Mlle. Moiseney appeared, who, at sight of this tableau vivant, stood perfectly confounded.

"You are very much astonished, mademoiselle," said M. Moriaz to her.

"Not so much as you fancy, monsieur," replied she, recovering herself. "I did not dare to say it, but in my heart I always believed, always thought—Yes, I always was sure that it would end thus."

"God bless Pope Joan!" he cried; "I shall cease to correct her."

We have failed to learn what Samuel Brohl is doing in America. In waiting for something better, has he become an humble teacher? has he attempted a new matrimonial enterprise? has he become a reporter of the New York Herald, or a politician in one of the Northern States, or a carpet-bagger in South Carolina? does he dream of being some day President of the glorious republic with the starry banner?

Up to the present time, no American journal has devoted the shortest paragraph to him. Adventurers are beings who constantly vanish and reappear; they belong to the family of divers; but, after many plunges, they always end by some catastrophe. The wave supports the drowning man an instant, then bears him away and drags him down to the depths of the briny abyss; there is heard a splash, a ripple, a hoarse cry, followed by a smothered groan, and Samuel Brohl is no more! For some days the question is agitated whether his real name is Brohl, Kicks, or Larinski; soon something else is talked about, and his memory becomes a prey to eternal silence.

THE END