rty but who loves it,
cherishes it as a lover adores his mistress? And the final trait,
what to you think of it? Lollius was always ready to die for his
country--'_non ille pro patria timidus perire_.' In good faith, is it
not curious? Does it not seem as though Horace had known Count Larinski
at Rome or at Tibur?"

"I do not doubt it for an instant," replied M. Moriaz, taking the book
from the hands of Abbe Miollens and placing it respectfully on the
table. "Luckily, our friend Larinski, as you call him, fell upon the
excellent idea of resuscitating himself some thirty years ago, which
procured for us the great joy of meeting him at Saint Moritz; and while
we are on the subject--My dear abbe, have you a free, impartial mind?
Can you listen to me? I have a question to propound, an elucidation to
demand. It is not only the friend to whom I address myself, it is the
confessor, the director of consciences, the man of the whole universe in
whose discretion I place most reliance."

"I am all ears," responded the abbe, crossing the shapely legs in which
he took no little pride.

M. Moriaz entered at once into the subject that troubled him. It was
some moments before Abbe Miollens divined whither he was tending.
As soon as he had grasped a ray of light, his face contracted, and
uncrossing his limbs, he cried: "Ah, what a misfortune! You will have
to renounce your delightful dream, my dear Monsieur, and, believe me,
no one can be more grieved than I. I fully comprehend with what joy you
would have seen your charming daughter consecrate, I will not say her
fortune, for you know as well as I how little Count Larinski would care
for that, but consecrate, I say, her graces, her beauty, and all the
qualities of her angelic character to the happiness of a man of rare
merit who has been cruelly scourged by Providence. She loves him, she
is loved by him; Heaven would have blest their union. Ah, what a
misfortune! I must repeat it, this marriage is impossible; our friend is
already married."

"You are sure of it?" cried M. Moriaz, in a burst of enthusiasm that the
good abbe mistook for an access of despair.

"I scarcely can pardon myself for causing you this pain. You ask if I am
sure of it! I have it from our friend himself. One evening, apropos of I
scarcely remember what, it occurred to me to ask if he were married,
and he replied, briefly: 'I thought I had told you so.' Ah! my dear
professor, it were needless to discuss whethe