“I feel, monsieur, like a criminal.  Be merciful, and refuse her to me.”

M. Moriaz replied:  “The fact is, you come, monsieur, in the words of the evangelist, ‘like a thief in the night’; but I have nothing to refuse you.  You are not the son-in-law I frankly avow, whom I should have chosen.  This matters not; my daughter belongs to herself, she is mistress of her own actions, and I have no reason to believe that she errs in her choice.  You are a man of taste and of honour, and you know the worth of what she has given you.  If you render Antoinette happy, you will find in me a warm friend.  I have said all that is necessary; let us suppose that you have replied to me, and talk of something else.”

Samuel Brohl considered the matter settled; he insisted no longer, and entered at once upon another topic.  He knew how to be agreeable and dignified at the same time.  He was as amiable and gracious as his lively emotion would permit.  M. Moriaz was obliged to confess to himself that Count Larinski was as good company at Cormeilles as he had been at Saint Moritz, and had no other fault than having taken it into his head to become his son-in-law.

Their interview was a prolonged one.  During this time Antoinette had been promenading the walk in front of the house, inhaling the jasmine-perfumed air, pouring out her heart to the night and to the stars.  Her happy reverie was troubled only by the presence of a bat, flitting incessantly from one end of the terrace to the other, flapping its wings about her head.  The loathsome creature seemed to be especially in quest of her, circling around and above her with obstinate persistency, even venturing to graze her hair in passing; Antoinette even fancied that she could distinguish its hideous face, with deep pouches and long ears, and she moved away, quivering with disgust.

She heard a step on the gravel-walk.  Samuel Brohl had taken leave of M. Moriaz and was crossing the terrace to regain his carriage.  He recognised Antoinette, approached her and clasped on her wrist a bracelet he held in his hand, saying as he did so:  “What could I give you that would equal in value the medallion you deigned to offer me and that should never leave me?  However, here is a trinket by which I set great store.  My mother loved it; she always refused to part with it, even in the time of her greatest distress; she wore it on her arm when she died.”

We are not all moulded alike; and there is no human clay in which are not intermingled some spangles of gold.  Intriguers as well as downright knaves are often capable of experiencing moments of sincere and pure sentiments; in certain encounters every human being rises superior to him-or herself.  The upper part of Mlle. Moriaz’s face was shaded by her red hood, the lower part lit up by the moon, which was slowly rising above the hills.  Samuel Brohl contemplated her in silence; she seemed to him as beautiful as a dream.  During two entire minutes he forgot that she had an income of a hundred thousand livres, and that, according to all probabilities, M. Moriaz would die one day.  His head was completely turned by the thought that this woman loved him, that soon she would be his.  Yes, for precisely two minutes, Samuel Brohl was as passionately in love with Mlle. Moriaz as might, perchance, have been Count Larinski.