It was many months since these two men had met; but they had been long bound together by a powerful sympathy, born of quiet talks and confidences, in which each had told the other of similar sufferings.  A long deferred secret hope troubled Labanoff as the memory of Marsa devoured Menko; and they had many times exchanged dismal theories upon the world, life, men, and laws.  Their common bitterness united them.  And Michel received Labanoff, despite his resolution to receive no one, because he was certain that he should find in him the same suffering as that expressed by De Musset and Petoefi.

Labanoff, to-day, appeared to him more enigmatical and gloomy than ever.  From the lips of the Russian fell only words of almost tragical mystery.

Menko made him sit down by his side upon a divan, and he noticed that an extraordinary fever seemed to burn in the blue eyes of his friend.

“I learned that you had returned from London,” said Labanoff; “and, as I was leaving Paris, I wished to see you before my departure.  It is possible that we may never see each other again.”

“Why?”

“I am going to St. Petersburg on pressing business.”

“Have you finished your studies in Paris?”

“Oh!  I had already received my medical diploma when I came here.  I have been living in Paris only to be more at my ease to pursue—­a project which interests me.”

“A project?”

Menko asked the question mechanically, feeling very little curiosity to know Labanoff’s secret; but the Russian’s face wore a strange, ironical smile as he answered: 

“I have nothing to say on that subject, even to the man for whom I have the most regard.”

His brilliant eyes seemed to see strange visions before them.  He remained silent for a moment, and then rose with an abrupt movement.

“There,” he said, “that is all I had to tell you, my dear Menko.  Now, ’au revoir’, or rather, good-by; for, as I said before, I shall probably never see you again.”

“And why, pray?”

“Oh!  I don’t know; it is an idea of mine.  And then, my beloved Russia is such a strange country.  Death comes quickly there.”

He had still upon his lips that inexplicable smile, jesting and sad at once.

Menko grasped the long, white hand extended to him.

“My dear Labanoff, it is not difficult to guess that you are going on some dangerous errand.”  Smiling:  “I will not do you the injustice to believe you a nihilist.”

Labanoff’s blue eyes flashed.

“No,” he said, “no, I am not a nihilist.  Annihilation is absurd; but liberty is a fine thing!”

He stopped short, as if he feared that he had already said too much.

“Adieu, my dear Menko.”

The Hungarian detained him with a gesture, saying, with a tremble in his voice: 

“Labanoff!  You have found me when a crisis in my life is also impending.  I am about, like yourself, to commit a great folly; a different one from yours, no doubt.  However, I have no right to tell you that you are about to commit some folly.”