things. The sky was
flecked with small gray clouds; a light, silvery mist hung on the
brow of the hills; in two places the Seine appeared glittering in the
sunshine. Abel breakfasted in the open air; while eating he gazed on the
sky and on the great garden-plain extending at his feet, covered with
vegetables, grape-vines, and asparagus, interspersed with fruit-trees.
The wooded hills bordering it formed an admirable frame. In his present
mood Count Larinski was charmed with the landscape, which was at once
grand and smiling. Then he questioned himself as to how much a bed of
asparagus would yield at the gates of Paris, and, having finished his
calculation, he surveyed with the eye of a poet the heather and broom
that surrounded him. He decided that the Sannois Hill is more beautiful
than Koseg; and indeed it is not necessary to be in love with Mlle.
Moriaz to hold that opinion.

After having had a good breakfast, he again set out, following the crest
of the hill and going through the woods. As he approached Cormeilles, he
saw in the distance, beyond a grove of oaks, the white walls of a pretty
villa. His heart beat faster, and by a sort of divination he said within
himself, "That must be it." He inquired; he had made no mistake. Five
minutes later he stood before a railing, through which he saw a green
lawn. At the entrance of the porter's lodge a woman sat knitting.

"Can you tell me where M. Moriaz lives?" asked Count Larinski.

"Here, monsieur," she replied; "but M. Moriaz is absent; he will not
return for a month. If you come from a distance, monsieur," she added,
graciously, "perhaps you would like to rest awhile on the terrace. The
view is beautiful."

This hospitable reception seemed a good omen, for, sensible as he was,
he believed in presentiments and prognostics. He entered without waiting
to be urged. When he had crossed the lawn he stood facing two detached
buildings, separated by a mass of verdure: to the right, an old
summer-house, used from time immemorial for M. Moriaz's collections,
laboratory, and library; to the left, a new two-story house, part stone,
part brick, built in an elegant but unobtrusive style, without ornament
or pretension, and flanked by a turret covered with ivy and clematis,
which served for a dove-cote. The house was not a palace, but there was
an air about it of well-being, comfort, and happiness. In looking at
it you felt like saying, "The inmates here ought to be happy!" This