ave, dignified air, in order to salute
with a wave of his hand the phantom that had just appeared before him.
It was the same that he had summoned one evening at the Hotel Steinbock,
and treated there as an addle-brain, as a visionary, and even as an
imbecile; but this time he gave him a more indulgent and gracious
reception. He bore him no ill-will, he wished him well, he was under
essential obligations to him, and Samuel Brohl was no ingrate.

"Ah! well, my poor friend, I am here," he said, in that mute language
that phantoms understand. "I have taken your place, and almost your
form; I play your part in the great fair of this world, and, although
your noble body has rested for four years, six feet underground, thanks
to me you still live. I always have had a most sincere admiration for
you. I considered you a phenomenon, a prodigy. You were courageous,
devoted, generosity itself; you esteemed honour above all the gold
deposits in California; you detested all coarse thoughts and doubtful
actions; your mother had nourished you in all sublime follies. You
were a true chevalier, a true Pole, the last Don Quixote in this age of
sceptics, plunderers, and interlopers. Blessed be the chance that made
us acquainted! You lived retired, solitary, unknown, in a miserable
hovel just outside of Bucharest. So goes the world! You were in
hiding--you who had nothing to hide from either God or man--you who
deserved a crown. Alas! the Russian Government had the poor taste not to
appreciate your exploits, and you feared that it would claim and obtain
your extradition. At our first meeting I pleased you, and you took me
into your friendship; I spoke Polish, and you loved music. I became your
intimate friend, your sole companion, your confidant. You must grant
that you owe to me the last happy moments of your short existence. I
soon knew your origin, the history of your youth, of your enterprises,
and of your misfortunes. You initiated me into the secret of the great
invention that you had just made; you explained to me in detail the
mechanism of your famous gun. I was intelligent; I understood, or
thought I understood. This gun, you said, would one day make my
fortune, for, on your own account, you had renounced all hope; you had
heart-disease, and you knew that you were condemned to a speedy end. My
imagination was kindled. Through my entreaty you decided to leave with
me for Vienna. This expedition was fatal to you, but I swear to you I