members of the families of Russian resident officials.  He frequented the houses of the latter most, in order not to attract attention to his intercourse with his compatriots.  He spoke Russian fluently, but feigned total ignorance both of that and his own language, and even affected an incapacity for learning them when urged to do so by his scholars.  Among the risks to which this exposed him was the temptation of cutting short a difficult explanation in his lessons by a single word, which would have made the whole matter clear.  But this, although the most frequent and vexatious, was not the severest trial of his incognito.  One day, while giving a lesson to two beautiful Polish girls, daughters of a lady who had shown him great kindness, the conversation turned upon Poland:  he spoke with an indifference which roused the younger to a vehement outburst on behalf of her country.  The elder interrupted her sharply in their native language with, “How can you speak of holy things to a hare-brained Frenchman?” At another Polish house, a visitor, hearing that M. Catharo was from Paris, was eager to ask news of his brother, who was living there in exile:  their host dissuaded him, saying, “You know that inquiries about relations in exile are strictly forbidden.  Take care! one is never safe with a stranger.”  Their unfortunate fellow-countryman, who knew the visitor’s brother very well, was forced to bend over a book to hide the blood which rushed to his face in the conflict of feeling.  He kept so close a guard upon himself that he would never sleep in the room with another person—­which it was sometimes difficult to avoid on visits to neighboring country-seats—­lest a word spoken in his troubled slumbers should betray him.  He passed nine months in familiar relations with all the principal people of the place, his nationality and his designs being known to but very few of his countrymen, who kept the secret with rigid fidelity.  At length, however, he became aware that he was watched; the manner of some of his Russian friends grew inquiring and constrained; he received private warnings, and perceived that he was dogged by the police.  It was not too late for flight, but he knew that such a course would involve all who were in his secret, and perhaps thousands of others, in tribulation, and that for their sakes it behooved him to await the terrible day of reckoning which was inevitably approaching.  The only use to which he could turn this time of horrible suspense was in concerting a plan of action with his colleagues.  His final interview with the chief of them took place in a church at the close of the short winter twilight on the last day of the year.  After agreeing on all the points which they could foresee, they solemnly took leave of each other, and Piotrowski was left alone in the church, where he lingered to pray fervently for strength for the hour that was at hand.

The next morning at daybreak he was suddenly shaken by the arm:  he composed himself for the part he was to play, and slowly opened his eyes.  His room was filled with Russian officials:  he was arrested.  He protested against the outrage to a British subject, but his papers were seized, he was carried before the governor of the place, and after a brief examination given into the custody of the police.