“What, you! you again!  I can go nowhere in Grisons without meeting you.  I ask as I did at Chur, ‘Where do you come from?’”

“Did you think I would stay there forever?” rejoined M. Camille Langis, reproachfully.  “You have not kept your word, you have forgotten me; you did not write to me.  I am tired of waiting, so here I am.”

“And where are you going?”

“To the Hotel Badrutt, to plead my own cause, because my advocate has failed me.”

“Ah! you have chosen an excellent time,” cried M. Moriaz; “you have a real genius for arriving in season.  Go, hurry, plead, moan, weep, entreat; you will be well received; you can come and tell me all about it.”

“What do you mean?” asked Camille; “is it all over?  Have you spoken, and did she silence you?”

“Not at all; she listened to me, without enthusiasm, it is true, but with attention and deference, when suddenly—­Ah! my poor friend, how can it be helped?  This sad world is full of accidents and Poles.”

M. Langis looked at him in amazement, as if to ask for an explanation.  M. Moriaz continued:  “Do yourself justice.  You are the most honest fellow upon earth, I grant; you are a charming man, and an engineer of the highest merit.  But, unfortunately, there is no mystery of blood and tears in your existence; you are perfectly unpretending, frank, unaffected, and as transparent as crystal; in short, you are not a stranger.  Had you a delicate, blond, and romantic mother, and do you wear her portrait on your heart? have you unfathomable green eyes? have you adventures to relate? have you visited California? have you swept the streets of San Francisco? have you exchanged bullets with the Cossacks? have you been killed in three combats and in ten skirmishes?  I fear you have not even thought of dying once.  Have you tried all professions, without succeeding in one? have you invented a gun which burst? and, above all, are you as poor as a church-mouse?  What! is it possible that you possess none of these fine advantages, and yet are audacious enough to ask me for my daughter’s hand?”

M. Moriaz ended this harangue as the Samaden mail-coach passed.  Count Abel, seated on the outside, bowed and waved his hand to them.

“Look well at that man,” said M. Moriaz to Camille, “for he is the enemy.”

And then, instead of giving him the remaining information that the youth desired, he said: 

“Go away and forget; it is the best thing that you can do.”

“You do not know me yet,” replied Camille.  “I am obstinate, I fire to the last cartridge.  I will follow your steps.  Oh! don’t be afraid, I will lie—­deceive Antoinette; let her think that I have relinquished my claims.  I shall pay her only a friendly visit; but my eyes hunger to see her, and I will see her.”