that date his romances followed in quick succession.  Embodying
     extravagant adventures, they must be classed nevertheless in
     the category of the sentimental novel to which the writings of
     Sand and Feuillet belong.  Cherbuliez is always an interesting
     story-teller and an ingenious artificer of plot, but his
     psychology is conventional and his descriptive passages
     superficial though clever.  “Samuel Brohl & Co.,” published in
     1877, illustrates his power of drawing cosmopolitan types,
     Russians, Poles, English, Germans and Jews, which he portrays
     in all his novels.  He was admitted to the French Academy in
     1881, and died in 1899.

I.—­A Mountain Romance

“Yes! she is certainly very beautiful as well as very rich,” said Count Abel Larinski, as he watched, through his hotel window, the graceful figure of Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz.  “A marriage between Count Abel Larinski, the sole descendant of one of the most ancient and noble families of Poland, and Mlle. Moriaz, the daughter of the President of the French Institute, is a thing which might be arranged.  But alas!  Count Abel Larinski, you are a very poor man.  Let me see how long you will be able to stay in Saint Moritz?  These hotels in the Upper Engadine are frightfully dear!”

The handsome young Polish nobleman opened his purse and looked at the contents rather sadly.  It was almost empty.  He would certainly have to sell some of his family jewels, if he wanted to stay at Saint Moritz.  Unhappily, he now had only the fine diamond ring, which he wore on his finger, and a Persian bracelet composed of three golden plates connected by a band of filigree work.

“Now, which shall I sell,” said the Count; “the Larinski ring, or the bracelet which belonged to Samuel Brohl?  The ring, I think.  It will bring in much more money, and besides, the bracelet might be useful as a present.”

After strolling some time about the garden, Mlle. Moriaz saw her father waiting for her at the door.

“What do you think, Antoinette, of an excursion to Silvaplana Lake?” said M. Moriaz.  “I’m feeling so much better already, and I absolutely long, my dear, for a good walk.”

“I should be delighted,” said his daughter, “if you think it will not tire you.”

M. Moriaz was sure an excursion would not tire him.  So they set out for a long walk, through the wild mountain scenery.  Antoinette was delighted to find that her father was recovering his strength, but he was alarmingly quiet and thoughtful.  Was she in for one of those serious lectures on the subject of marriage which he used to read to her at Paris?  Yes!  Camille must have written to him.  For as she was standing on a mountain bridge, listening to the liquid gurgling of the torrent at the bottom of the gorge, she said to him: 

“Isn’t the music of this wild stream delightful?”