s she passed
close by him on leaving the church. Her father was telling her something
that made her smile; this smile was that of a young girl just budding
into womanhood, who has nothing yet to conceal from her guardian angel.
Count Larinski left the church after her, and followed her with his eyes
as she crossed the square. On returning to the hotel he had a curiosity
to satisfy. He questioned one of the _garcons_, who pointed out to him
in the hotel register for travellers the following entry: "M. Moriaz,
member of the Institute of France, and his daughter, from Paris, _en
route_ for Saint Moritz." "And where then?" he asked himself; then
dismissed the subject from his mind.

When he had dined, he repaired to the post-office to inquire for a
letter he was expecting from Vienna. He found it, and returned to
shut himself up in his chamber, where he tore open the envelope with a
feverish hand. This letter, written in a more peculiar than felicitous
French, was the reply of the Jew banker. It read as follows:

"M. LE COMTE:

"Although you both write and understand German very well, you do not
like to read it, and therefore I write to you in French. It grieves
me deeply not to have it in my power to satisfy your honoured demand.
Business is very dull. It is impossible for me to advance you another
florin, or even to renew your note, which falls due shortly. I am the
father of a family; it pains me to be compelled to remind you of this.

"I wish to tell you quite freely what I think. I did believe in your
gun, but I believe in it no longer, no one believes in it any more. When
strong, it was too heavy; when you made it lighter, it was no longer
strong. What came next? You know it burst. Beware how you further
perfect it, or it will explode whenever it becomes aware that any one
is looking at it. This accursed gun has eaten up the little you had, and
some of my savings besides, although I have confidence that you will, at
least, pay me the interest due on that. It grieves me to tell you so, M.
de Comte, but all inventors are more or less crack-brained, and end in
the hospital. For the love of God, leave guns as they are, and invent
nothing more, or you will go overboard, and there will be no one to fish
you out."

Abel Larinski paused at this place. He put his letter down on the table,
and, turning round in his arm-chair, with a savage air, his eye fixed
on a distant corner of the room, he fell to thus soliloquizing in