“It is admirably absurd and foolishly admirable,” replied the count.

“The flowers I give her are never so beautiful as some that were sent me the other day,” exclaimed Mlle. Moriaz.

She went then into the next room, and returned, carrying the vase of water containing the mysterious bouquet.  “What do you think of these?” she asked the count.  “They are already much faded, and yet I think they are beautiful still.”

He admired the bouquet; but, although Antoinette regarded him fixedly, she detected neither blush nor confusion on his face.  “It was not he,” she said to herself.

There was a piano in the room where they had dined.  As Count Abel was taking leave, Mlle. Moiseney begged him to give Mlle. Moriaz proof of his talent.  He slightly knit his brows at this request, and resumed that sombre, almost savage, air he had worn when he met Antoinette at the foot of the mountain.  He urged in excuse the lateness of the hour, but he allowed the promise to be wrested from him that he would be more complaisant the next day.

When he was gone, accompanied by M. Moriaz, who said he would walk a little distance with him, Antoinette exclaimed:  “You see, my dear—­it was not he.”

“Suppose I was wrong,” replied Mlle. Moiseney, in a piqued tone—­“you will at least grant that he is handsome?”

“As handsome as you please.  Do you know what I think of when I look at him?  A haunted castle.  And I feel curious to make the acquaintance of the goblins that visit it.”

Notwithstanding his promise, Count Larinski did not reappear before the lapse of three days; but this time he gave all the music that was asked of him.  His memory was surprising, and his whole soul seemed to be at the ends of his fingers; and he drew marvellous strains from an instrument which, in itself, was far from being a marvel.  He sang, too; he had a barytone voice, mellow and resonant.  After having hummed in a low tone some Roumanic melodies, he struck up one of his own national songs.  This he failed to finish; tears started in his eyes, emotion overpowered his voice.  He broke off abruptly, asking pardon for the weakness that had caused him to make himself ridiculous; but one glance at Mlle. Moriaz convinced him that she did not find him ridiculous.

A most invaluable resource, indeed, in a mountain-country where the evenings are long, is a Pole who knows how to talk and to sing.  M. Moriaz liked music; but he liked something else besides.  When he could not go into society and was forbidden to work, he grew sleepy after dinner; in order to rouse himself he was glad to play a hand of bezique or ecarte.  For want of some one better, he played with Mlle. Moiseney; but this make-shift was little to his taste; he disliked immensely coming into too close proximity with the pinched visage and yellow ribbons of Pope Joan.  He proposed to Count Larinski to take a hand with him, and his proposal was accepted with the best grace in the world.  “Decidedly this man is good for everything,” thought M. Moriaz, and he conceived a great liking for him.  The result was, that during an entire week Count Abel passed every evening at the Hotel Badrutt.