His eyes suddenly fell on his own reflection in the mirror above the chimney-piece, and he regarded it fixedly for a few moments.

“The semblance truly of an inventor,” he resumed, mournfully smiling.  “This pale, emaciated face; these deep-set eyes, with dark circles about them; these hollow, cadaverous cheeks!  The three years have indeed left their traces.  Bah! a little rest in the Alpine pastures, and Faust will become rejuvenated.”

He seized a pen, and wrote the following reply: 

“You are truly kind, my dear Guldenthal:  you refuse me the miserable florins, but you give me in their stead a little piece of advice that is worth a fortune.  Unluckily, I am not capable of following it.  Noble souls like ours comprehend each other with half a word, and you are a poet whenever it suits you.  When in the course of the day you have transacted a neat little piece of business, after having rubbed your hands until you have almost deprived them of skin, you tune your violin, which you play like an angel, and you draw from it such delightful strains that your ledger and your cash-box fall to weeping with emotion.  I, too, am a musician, and my music is the fair sex.  But, alas! women never can be for me other than an adorable inutility, a part of the dream of my life.  Your dreams yield you a handsome percentage, as I have sorrowfully experienced; my dreams yield me nothing, and therefore it is that they are dear to me.

“I must prohibit—­understand me clearly—­your disposing of the trinket I left with you; we have the weakness, we Poles, of clinging to our family relics.  Set your mind at rest; before the end of the month I shall have returned to Vienna, and will honour the dear little note.  One day you will go down on your knees to beg of me to loan you a thousand florins, and I will astonish you with my ingratitude.  May the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, have you in his holy keeping, my dear Guldenthal!”

As he finished his letter, he heard the sound of harps and violins.  Some itinerant musicians were giving a concert in the hotel-garden, which was lit up as bright as day.  Abel opened his window, and leaned on his elbows, looking out.  The first object that presented itself to his eyes was Mlle. Moriaz, promenading one of the long garden-walks, leaning on her father’s arm.  Many eyes were fixed on her—­we have already said it was difficult not to gaze upon her—­but no one contemplated her with such close attention as Count Larinski.  He never once lost sight of her.

“Is she beautiful?  Is she even pretty?” he queried within himself.  “I cannot quite make up my mind, but I am very sure that she is charming.  Like my bracelet, this is a fancy article.  She is a little thin, and her shoulders are too vigorously fashioned for her waist, which is slender and supple as a reed; but, such as she is, she has not her equal.  Her walk, her carriage, resemble nothing I ever have