to exert himself much in the education of Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz.  Love would charge itself with that.  She adored Samuel Brohl, and he relied upon her devotion; it were impossible that she could refuse him anything!  She was prepared in advance for every compliance, every obedience; she was ready to be his humble servant in all things.  Knaves make it their boast that they can readily fathom honest people; the truth is, they only half comprehend them.  Honest people have sentiments, as do certain languages, reputed easy, which are full of mystery, of refined delicacy, inaccessible to the vulgar mind.  A commercial traveller often learns to speak Italian in three weeks, and yet never really knows the language; Samuel Brohl had gained a superficial knowledge of Mlle. Moriaz in a few days, and yet he was far from having a true comprehension of her.

He arrived at Maisons in the most cheerful, self-satisfied frame of mind.  As he walked through the park, he remembered that Mme. de Lorcy had lost her only two children when they were still of a tender age; that she was therefore free to will her property as she pleased; that she had a short neck, an apoplectic temperament; that Antoinette was her goddaughter; that although she was piqued with Count Larinski the count was adroit, and would find a way to regain her sympathies.  The park appeared to him magnificent; he admired its long, regular alleys, which had the appearance of extending as far as Peking; he paused some moments before the purple beech, and it seemed to him that there must be some resemblance between this beautiful tree and himself.  He contemplated with the eyes of proprietorship the terrace planted with superb lindens, and he decided that he would establish himself in his Maisons chateau, that his pretty Cormeilles villa would merely be his country-seat.  As it may be seen, his imagination refused him nothing; it placed happiness and wealth untold at his command.

We are unable to state whether Mme. de Lorcy actually had an apoplectic temperament; the one thing certain is, that she was not dead.  Samuel Brohl perceived her from afar on the veranda, which she had just stepped out upon in order to watch for his arrival.  He had forgotten himself in the park, which should one day be his park, and she was beginning to be uneasy about his coming.

She cried out to him:  “At last!  You always make us wait for you,” adding, in a most affable tone, “We meet to-day under less tragic circumstances than the last time you were here, and I hope you will bear away a pleasanter remembrance of Maisons.”

He respectfully kissed her hand, saying:  “Happiness must be purchased; I cannot pay too dearly for mine.”

She ushered him into the salon, where he had scarcely set foot, when he descried an old woman lounging on a causeuse, fanning herself as she chatted with Abbe Miollens.  He remained motionless, his eyes fixed, scarcely breathing, cold as marble; it seemed to him that the four walls of the salon swayed from right to left, and left to right, and that the floor was sliding from under his feet like the deck of a pitching vessel.