“He is unquestionably her cousin-german,” thought M. Moriaz.

“Only think,” continued the abbe, “I have found M. Larinski all over again in Horace!  Yes, Horace has represented him, trait for trait, in the person of Lollius.  You know Marcus Lollius, to whom he addressed Ode ix. of book iv., and who was consul in the year 733 after the foundation of Rome.  The resemblance is striking; pay attention!”

Depositing his cup on the table he took the book in his right hand, and placing the forefinger of his left by turns on his lips or complacently following with it the lines of especial beauty in the text, he exclaimed:  “Now what do you say to this?  ‘Thy soul is wise,’ wrote Horace to Lollius, ’and resists with the same constancy the temptations of happiness as those of adversity—­est animus tibi et secundis temporibus dubusque rectus.’  Is not this Count Larinski?  Listen further:  ’Lollius detested fraud and cupidity; he despised money which seduces most men—­abstinens ducentis ad se cuncta pecuniae.’  This trait is very striking; I find even, between ourselves, that our dear count despises money entirely too much, he turns from it in horror, its very name is odious to him; he is an Epictetus, he is a Diogenes, he is an anchorite of ancient times who would live happily in a Thebaid.  He told us himself that it made little difference to him whether he dined on a piece of bread and a glass of water, or in luxury at the Cafe Anglais.  But I have not finished.  ‘Happy be those,’ exclaimed Horace, ’who know how to suffer uncomplainingly the hardships of poverty—­qui duram que callet pauperiem pati!’ Of whom does he speak—­of Lollius, or of our friend, who not only endures his poverty but who loves it, cherishes it as a lover adores his mistress?  And the final trait, what to you think of it?  Lollius was always ready to die for his country—­’non ille pro patria timidus perire.’  In good faith, is it not curious?  Does it not seem as though Horace had known Count Larinski at Rome or at Tibur?”

“I do not doubt it for an instant,” replied M. Moriaz, taking the book from the hands of Abbe Miollens and placing it respectfully on the table.  “Luckily, our friend Larinski, as you call him, fell upon the excellent idea of resuscitating himself some thirty years ago, which procured for us the great joy of meeting him at Saint Moritz; and while we are on the subject—­My dear abbe, have you a free, impartial mind?  Can you listen to me?  I have a question to propound, an elucidation to demand.  It is not only the friend to whom I address myself, it is the confessor, the director of consciences, the man of the whole universe in whose discretion I place most reliance.”

“I am all ears,” responded the abbe, crossing the shapely legs in which he took no little pride.