“Ah, I beg of you, let us talk a little of the man-monkey,” he observed, in a rather more pliant tone than he had at first assumed.  “That is a question that has the advantage of being neither Russian nor Polish.”

“You will not succeed that way in throwing me off the track.  I mean to tell you all the evil I think of you, no matter how it may incense you.  You uttered, at table, theories that displeased me.  You are not only a Polish patriot; you are an idealist, a true disciple of Plato, and you do not know how I always have detested this man.  In all these sixty years that I have been in this world, I have seen nothing but selfishness, and grasping after self-gratification.  Twice during dinner you spoke of an ideal world.  What is an ideal world?  Where is it situated?  You speak of it as of a house whose inhabitants you are well acquainted with, whose key is in your pocket.  Can you show me the key?  I promise not to steal it from you.  O poet!—­for you are quite as much of a poet as of a Pole, which is not saying much—­”

“Nothing remains but to hang me,” he interposed, smilingly.

“No, I shall not hang you.  Opinions are free, and there is room enough in the world for all, even idealists.  Besides, if you were to be hanged, it would bring to the verge of despair a charming girl who adores you, who was created expressly for you, and whom you will shortly marry.  When will the ceremony take place?”

“If I dared hope that you would do me the honour of being present, princess, I should postpone it until your return from England.”

“You are too amiable; but I could not on any consideration retard the happiness of Mlle. Moriaz.  There, my dear count, I congratulate you sincerely.  I had the pleasure to meet here the future Countess Larinski.  She is adorable!  It is an exquisite nature, hers—­a true poet’s wife.  She must have brains, discernment; she has chosen you—­that says everything.  As to her fortune, I dare not ask you if she has any; you would turn away from me in disgust.  Do idealists trouble their heads with such vile questions?”

She leaned towards him, and, fanning herself excitedly, added:  “These poor idealists! they have one misfortune.”

“And what is that, princess?”

“They dream with open eyes, and the awakening is sometimes disagreeable.  Ah, my dear Count Larinski, this, that, and the other, et cetera.  Thus endeth the adventure.”

Then, stretching out her neck until her face was close to his, she darted at him a venomous, viper-like look, and, in a voice that seemed to cut into his tympanum like a sharp-toothed saw, she hissed, “Samuel Brohl, the man with the green eyes, sooner or later the mountains must meet!”

It seemed to him that the candelabra on the mantel-piece darted out jets of flame, whose green, blue, and rose-coloured tongues ascended to the ceiling; and it appeared to him as though his heart was beating as noisily as a clock-pendulum, and that every one would turn to inquire whence came the noise.  But every one was occupied; no one turned round; no one suspected that there was a man present on whom a thunderbolt had just fallen.