Princess Gulof appeared to have entirely failed in her object.  It seemed to Mlle. Moriaz that for the last twenty minutes she loved Count Larinski more than ever before.

The hour drew near; he was on the way; she had never been so impatient to see him.  She saw some one at the end of the terrace.  It was M. Camille Langis, who was going towards the laboratory.

He turned his head, retraced his steps, and came to her.  M. Moriaz had asked him to translate two pages of a German memoir which he had not been able to understand.  Camille was bringing the translation; perhaps that was the reason of his coming back to Cormeilles after two days; perhaps, too, it was only a pretext.

Mlle. Moriaz could not help thinking that his visit was inopportune; that he had chose an unfortunate time for it.  “If the count finds him still here,” thought she, “I am not afraid that he will make a scene, but all his pleasure will be spoiled.”  There was a tinge of coldness in her welcome to M. Langis, of which he was sensible.

“I am in the way,” he said, making a movement to retire.

She kept him, and altered her tone:  “You are never in the way, Camille.  Sit there.”

He seated himself, and talked of the races at Chantilly, that he had attended the day before.

She listened to him, bowed her head in sign of approval; but she heard his voice through a mist that veiled her senses.  She lifted her hand to brush away a wasp that annoyed her by its buzzing.  The lace of her cuff, in falling back, left her wrist exposed.

“What a curious bracelet you have!” said M. Langis.

“Have you not seen it before?” she replied.  “It is some time since——­”

She interrupted herself, a sudden idea occurring to her.  She looked at her wrist.  This bracelet from which she never was parted—­this bracelet that Count Larinski had given to her—­this bracelet that he loved because it had belonged to his mother, and that the late Countess Larinski had worn as long as she lived—­resembled none other; but Mlle. Moriaz observed that it had a strong resemblance to the Persian bracelet that the Princess Gulof had described to her, and which she had exchanged for Samuel Brohl.  The three gold plates, the grotesque animals, the filigree network—­nothing was wanting.  She took it from her arm and handed it to M. Langis, saying to him:  “There is, it seems, something written on the interior of one of these plates; but you must know the secret to be able to open it.  Can you guess secrets?”

He carefully examined the bracelet.  “Two of these plates,” said he, “are solid, and of heavy gold; the third is hollow, and might serve as a case.  I see a little hinge that is almost invisible; but I seek in vain for the secret—­I cannot find it.”

“Is the hinge strong?”

“Not very, and the lid easily could be forced open.”

“That is what I want you to do,” she rejoined.