e must
be some kinship of spirit between our friend the abbe and that
crack-brained woman; that he is cousin-german to her at least."

"How grateful I am to you, my dear monsieur," continued Abbe Miollens,
lying back in his chair, "for having given us the pleasure of the
acquaintance of this rare man! It is you who sent him to us; to you
belongs the merit of having discovered him, or invented him, if you
choose."

"Oh! I beg of you not to exaggerate," humbly rejoined M. Moriaz. "He
invented himself, I assure you."

"At all events it was you who patronized him, who made him known to us;
without you the world never would have suspected the existence of this
superb genius, this noble character, who was hidden from sight like the
violet in the grass."

"He is unquestionably her cousin-german," thought M. Moriaz.

"Only think," continued the abbe, "I have found M. Larinski all over
again in Horace! Yes, Horace has represented him, trait for trait, in
the person of Lollius. You know Marcus Lollius, to whom he addressed Ode
ix. of book iv., and who was consul in the year 733 after the foundation
of Rome. The resemblance is striking; pay attention!"

Depositing his cup on the table he took the book in his right hand, and
placing the forefinger of his left by turns on his lips or complacently
following with it the lines of especial beauty in the text, he
exclaimed: "Now what do you say to this? 'Thy soul is wise,' wrote
Horace to Lollius, 'and resists with the same constancy the temptations
of happiness as those of adversity--_est animus tibi et secundis
temporibus dubusque rectus_.' Is not this Count Larinski? Listen
further: 'Lollius detested fraud and cupidity; he despised money which
seduces most men--_abstinens ducentis ad se cuncta pecuniae_.' This
trait is very striking; I find even, between ourselves, that our dear
count despises money entirely too much, he turns from it in horror, its
very name is odious to him; he is an Epictetus, he is a Diogenes, he is
an anchorite of ancient times who would live happily in a Thebaid. He
told us himself that it made little difference to him whether he dined
on a piece of bread and a glass of water, or in luxury at the Cafe
Anglais. But I have not finished. 'Happy be those,' exclaimed Horace,
'who know how to suffer uncomplainingly the hardships of poverty--_qui
duram que callet pauperiem pati_!' Of whom does he speak--of Lollius,
or of our friend, who not only endures his pove