During the drive, M. Moriaz gave himself up to the most melancholy reflections; he even tormented himself with sundry reproaches.  “We have acted contrary to good sense,” he thought.  “Her imagination has been taken by storm; in time it would have calmed down.  We should have left her to herself, to her natural defence—­her own good judgment, for she has a large stock of it.  I fell on the unlucky idea of calling Mme. de Lorcy to my aid, and she has spoiled everything by her boasted finesse.  As soon as Antoinette had reason to suspect that her choice was condemned by us, and that we were plotting the enemy’s destruction, the sympathy, mingled with admiration, which she accorded to M. Larinski, became transformed into love; the fire smouldering beneath ashes leaped up into flames.  We neglected to count on that passion which is innate in women, and which phrenologists call combativeness.  With her there is now a cause to be gained, and, when love unites its interests with cards or with war, it becomes irresistible.  Truly our campaign is greatly jeopardized, unless Heaven or M. Larinski interfere.”

Thus reasoned M. Moriaz, whom paternal misadventures and recent experiences had rendered a better psychologist than he ever had been.  While busied with his reflections the carriage drove rapidly onward, and thirty-five minutes sufficed to reach the little maison de campagne occupied by Abbe Miollens.  He found him in his cabinet, installed in a cushioned arm-chair embroidered by Mme. de Lorcy, slowly sipping a cup of excellent tea brought him by the missionaries from China.  On his left was his violin-box, on his right his beloved Horace, Orelli’s edition, Zurich, 1844.

Conversation began.  As soon as M. Moriaz had pronounced the name of Count Larinski, the abbe assumed the charmed and contented countenance of a dog lying in wait for its favourite game.

He exclaimed, “A most truly admirable man!”

“Mercy upon us!” thought M. Moriaz.  “Here we have an exordium strangely similar to that of Mlle. Moiseney.  Do they think to condemn me to a state of perpetual admiration of their prodigy?  I fear there must be some kinship of spirit between our friend the abbe and that crack-brained woman; that he is cousin-german to her at least.”

“How grateful I am to you, my dear monsieur,” continued Abbe Miollens, lying back in his chair, “for having given us the pleasure of the acquaintance of this rare man!  It is you who sent him to us; to you belongs the merit of having discovered him, or invented him, if you choose.”

“Oh!  I beg of you not to exaggerate,” humbly rejoined M. Moriaz.  “He invented himself, I assure you.”

“At all events it was you who patronized him, who made him known to us; without you the world never would have suspected the existence of this superb genius, this noble character, who was hidden from sight like the violet in the grass.”