seen before.  I can well imagine that when she appears in the streets of Paris people turn to look after her, but no one would have the audacity to follow her.  How old is she?  Twenty-four or twenty-five years, I should say.  Why is she not married?  Who is this withered, pinched-looking fright of a personage who trots at her side like a poodle-dog?  Probably some demoiselle de compagnie.  And there comes her femme de chambre, a very spruce little lass, bringing her a shawl, which the demoiselle de compagnie hastens to put over her shoulders.  She allows it to be done with the air of one who is accustomed to being waited upon.  Mlle. Moriaz is an heiress.  Why, then, is she not married?”

Count Larinski pursued his soliloquy as long as Mlle. Moriaz promenaded in the garden.  As soon as she re-entered the hotel, it appeared to him that the garden had become empty, and that the musicians were playing out of tune.  He closed his window.  He gave up his plan of starting the next day for Saxon.  He had decided that he would set out for Saint Moritz, to pass there at least two or three days.  He said to himself, “It seems absurd; but who can tell?”

Thereupon he proceeded to investigate the state of his finances, and he weighed and re-weighed his purse, which was very light.  Formerly Count Larinski had possessed a very pretty collection of jewellery.  He had looked upon this as a reserve fund, to which he would have recourse only in cases of extreme distress.  Alas! there remained to him now only two articles of his once considerable store—­the bracelet that was in the hands of M. Guldenthal, and a diamond ring that he wore on his finger.  He decided that, before quitting Chur, he would borrow money on this ring, or that he would try to sell it.

He remained some time seated at the foot of his bed, dangling his legs to and fro, his eyes closed.  He had closed them, in order to better call up a vision of Mlle. Moriaz, and he repeated the words:  “It seems absurd; but who can tell?  The fact is, we can know nothing of a surety, and anything may happen.”  Then he recalled one of Goethe’s poems, entitled “Vanitas! vanitatum vanitas!” and he recited several time in German these two lines: 

“Nun hab’ ich mein’ Sach’ auf nichts gestellt, Und mein gehort die ganze Welt!”

This literally signifies, “Now that I no longer count on anything, the whole world is mine.”  Abel Larinski recited these lines with a purity of accent that would have astonished M. Moses Guldenthal.

M. Moriaz, after wishing his daughter good-night, and imprinting a kiss upon her brow, as was his custom, had retired to his chamber.  He was preparing for bed, when there came a knock at his door.  Opening this, he saw before him a fair-haired youth, who rushed eagerly towards him, seized both his hands, and pressed them with effusion.  M. Moriaz disengaged his hands, and regarded the intruder with a bewildered air.