by simply lifting his finger. So my philosopher talked like one
who knows nothing of moral experience. If the fancy of an unreal
crime almost drove me mad, what must be the remorse of an actual
criminal?"

The same evening Felix ordered post horses and set out for
France.

Some months later, Monsieur Montmorot, chevalier of the legion of
honor, gave a grand dinner to celebrate his daughter's betrothal
with the Marquis Felix d'Aubremel, one of the noblest names in
France, as he styled it. The contract settling a part of his
fortune on his daughter Ernestine was signed at nine in the
evening. The Monday following the pair presented themselves
before the civil officials to solemnize their marriage by due
legal ceremonies.

Felix, a prey to the strange hallucination that incessantly
pursued him, saw a likeness between the official and the Chinese
figure he had awkwardly thrown down and broken one night long
ago. Presently his face darkened, and his eyes began to burn.
Behind the magistrate's blue spectacles he caught the gleam and
roll of the tawny eyes belonging to Mr. Harrison's clerk, to Li,
son of Mung, son of Tseu.

When at length the magistrate put the formal question, "Felix
Etienne d'Aubremel, do you take for your wife Ernestine Juliette
Montmorot," Felix heard a shrill ringing voice say, "Felix, I
give you your wife with my hand--my hand."

The official repeated the question more loudly. "With my hand--my
hand," whispered a thousand mocking little voices.

"No!" Felix shouted rather than answered, and rushed away from
the spot like a lunatic.

Once more at home, he shut out everyone and flung himself on his
bed, in a state of stupor that weighed him down till night--a
sort of dull torpor of brain, with utter exhaustion of physical
strength--a misery of formless thought. Towards evening one
persistent idea aroused him from this strange lethargy.

"I am a cowardly murderer," he groaned. "I wished for my
fellow-being's death. God punishes me--I will execute his
sentence." He stretched out his hand in the dark, groping for a
dagger that hung from the wall. Then a mild brightness filtered
through the curtains and irradiated the bed. Felix distinctly saw
the grotesque figure of Mandarin Li standing a few steps away.
The shadow of death darkened his face, and without seeming
movement of his lips, Felix heard these words, uttered by that
shrill ringing voice so hated, now mellowed into divine music.

"Felix