Mlle. Moriaz could no longer refrain her anger.  “Madame,” she exclaimed excitedly, “will you declare to M. Larinski, in my presence, that his name is Samuel Brohl?”

“I made that declaration to him yesterday—­it is useless to repeat it.  He was nearer dead than alive, and I was truly sorry for the state into which I had thrown him.  I cannot disguise from myself that I am the cause of all this; why did I take the boy from his father’s tavern and his natal mud?  Perhaps there he would have remained honest.  It was I who launched him into the world and gave him the desire to advance, I put the trump-cards into his hand, but he found that he could not win fast enough by fair play, so he ended by cheating.  It is not my place to overwhelm the poor devil—­we owe some consideration to those who are under obligations to us; and, once more, I desire not to appear further in this business.  Promise me that Samuel Brohl never will be informed of the measures I have taken.”

She replied, in a haughty tone:  “I promise you, madame, that I never will do Count Larinski the wrong to repeat to him a single word of the very likely story you have related to me.”

The princess rose hastily, remained standing before Mlle. Moriaz, and contemplated her in silence; finally she said, in tones of the most cutting sarcasm:  “Ah! you do not believe me, my dear.  Decidedly you do not believe me.  You are right; you should not put faith in an old woman’s childish chatter.  No, my darling, there is no Samuel Brohl:  I dined yesterday at Maisons with the most authentic of Counts Larinski, and nothing remains for me to say but to present my best wishes for the certain happiness of the Countess Larinski, et cetera—­of the Countess Larinski and company.”

With these words she bowed, turned on her heels, and disappeared.

Mlle. Moriaz remained an instant as if stunned by a blow.  She questioned herself as to whether she had not seen a vision, or had had the nightmare.  Was it, indeed, a Russian princess of flesh and blood who had just been there, who had been seated close beside her, and had conversed so strangely with her that the belfry of Cormeilles could not hear it without falling into a profound stupor?  In fact, the belfry of Cormeilles had become silent, its bells no longer rang; an appalling silence reigned for two leagues round.

Antoinette soon controlled her emotions.  “The day before yesterday,” she thought, “this woman appeared to me to be deranged:  she is a lunatic; I wish that Abel were here, he could tell me what happened at dinner between him and this dotard, and we should laugh over it together.  Perhaps nothing happened at all.  The Princess Gulof should be confined.  They do very wrong to let maniacs like that go at large.  It is dangerous; the bells of Cormeilles have ceased ringing.  Ah! bon Dieu, who knows?  Mme. de Lorcy surely has a hand in this business; it is the result of some grand plot.  How many acts are there in the play?  Here we are at the second or third; but there are some jokes that are very provoking.  I shall end by being seriously angry.”