“She herself, what did she say to you?”

“She was so enchanted, so delighted with the change, that she was dying to embrace me.”

“She shall pay for it.  And he, did you see him?”

“Just caught a glimpse of him, looked up to him as was befitting the humility of my position.  This fortunate man, this glorious mortal, was enthroned on the top of the mail-coach.”

“Is he really so fascinating?”

“He has, I assure you, a certain look of deep profundity, and he bears his exploits inscribed on his brow.  What am I, to contend against him!  You must allow that I have the appearance of a school-boy.  And yet, if I were to boast.  This road in Transylvania for which I had the contract was by no means easy to construct.  We had to cut through the solid rock, working in the air, suspended by ropes.  This perilous labour so disheartened our workmen that some of them left us; to encourage the rest, I was slung up like them, and like them handled the pickaxe.  One day, in the explosion of a charge a piece of stone struck the rope of one of my men with such violence that it cut it as clean in two as the edge of a razor would have done.  The man fell—­I believed him to be lost; by a miracle, his clothes caught in some brushwood, to which he succeeded in clinging.  It was I who went to his assistance, and I swear to you that in this rescue I proved the strength of my muscles, and ran the risk twenty times of breaking my neck.  The workmen had mistrusted me on account of my youth; from that day, I can assure you, they held me in respect.”

“Did you relate this incident to Antoinette?”

“What would have been the use?  With women it does not suffice to be a great man; you must have the look of one too.”  And Camille Langis cried out, clinching his hands:  “Ah! madame, I entreat you, do you know where I can procure a Polish head, a Polish mustache, a Polish smile?  Pray, where are these articles to be had, and what is their market price?  I will not haggle!  O women! what a set you are—­plague on you!”

“And are aunts the same?” gravely asked Mme. de Lorcy.

He answered more calmly:  “No, madame, you are a woman without an equal, and I name you every day in my prayers.  You are my only resource, my consolation, my counsel.  Do not refuse me your precious instructions!  What ought I to do?”

Mme. de Lorcy gazed up at the ceiling for an instant, and then said:  “Love elsewhere, my dear; abandon this foolish girl to her fate and her Pole.”

He started and replied:  “You demand what is impossible.  I am no longer my own master; she has taken possession of me—­she holds me.  Love elsewhere?  Can you think of it?  I detest her—­I curse her—­but I adore her!”

She rejoined:  “You should not use hyperbole any more than metaphors.  Both are unsolid food.  When you decide not to love, you will love no more.”

“That supposes that I have several hearts to choose from.  I never had but one, and that no longer belongs to me.  So you refuse me your advice?”