“Monsieur mistakes,” said the man.  “It was we who saved the poor thing’s life, when the father and mother were put to death far away from here in Hungary, and not a soul to take compassion on her.  She was only four years old; the prison-door was opened and her parents led to execution, and she left to wander about until she should starve.”

I asked if they knew who her parents were.  They did not, but were sure they were people of distinction, condemned for political offences.  This was all I could learn.  The child, they said, was in possession of no relic which betrayed her name or origin.  She only wore a small gold medallion on which was engraved a youthful Christ,—­the same in design as you see erected near the tomb in yonder valley.  It has been faithfully copied.

It was difficult to induce the couple to part with Eudora,—­that was her name.  She was now useful to them, and her marvellous beauty began to attract and brought additional coin to their collections, after the performances of the marionnette.  But I was resolved.  I offered to the strollers so large a sum in gold that they could not resist.  It was arranged on the spot.  With very little ceremony they said “Good-bye” to Eudora, and, taking the path over the mountain, in a few minutes were out of sight.

What a new, what a strange attitude for me!  Could I believe in my own existence?  There I stood, a grave professor of the University of ——­, educated and trained in the discipline I have already explained to you.  There stood Eudora, just as perfect in form and feature as imagination of poet ever pictured.

My plan was formed on the spot, instantly.  It was praiseworthy; but I deserved no praise for it.  A deep, engrossing selfishness, pervading alike sense and spirit, actuated me.  I had already brought under control the fever of the previous day.  I could reason calmly; but my conclusions had reference only to my own gratification and my own happiness.  I regarded Eudora as mine,—­my property,—­literally belonging to me.  I was forty,—­she not fifteen.  Yet what was I to do with her?  Recommend her to the care of my mother, who was still alive?  Certainly not; she would then be lost to me.  I had a cousin, a lady of high respectability, well married, who resided in the same town in which I lived.  She had no child of her own; she had often spoken of adopting one.  I frequently visited her house; and when there, she never ceased to criticize me for leading such an ascetic life.  Here was an excellent opportunity for my new charge.  My cousin would be delighted to have the guardianship of such a lovely creature.  She would be as devoted to her as to an own child.  She would sympathize in my plans, and would be careful to train Eudora for me.

Such was the programme.  It flashed on me and was definitely settled before I had time to bid her follow me to the inn.  She came unhesitatingly, and as if she had confidence in my kind intentions.  I did not converse much with her, but, making hasty preparations, we left the place and proceeded rapidly homeward.