ot repress a movement of indignation.

"Oh, reassure yourself!" she resumed; "that is only my way of speaking.
He was at my feet and I was standing."

M. Moriaz opened his lips and closed them again three times without
speaking. He finally contented himself with a gesture, which signified,
"The die is cast, let come what must."

Samuel Brohl religiously kept his word. After having made a most
faultless toilet, he repaired by the railway to Argenteuil, where he
took a carriage. He reached Cormeilles as the clock struck nine. He
was ushered into the _salon_, where M. Moriaz was reading his journal.
Samuel was pale, and his lips trembled with emotion. He greeted M.
Moriaz with profound respect, saying:

"I feel, monsieur, like a criminal. Be merciful, and refuse her to me."

M. Moriaz replied: "The fact is, you come, monsieur, in the words of the
evangelist, 'like a thief in the night'; but I have nothing to refuse
you. You are not the son-in-law I frankly avow, whom I should have
chosen. This matters not; my daughter belongs to herself, she is
mistress of her own actions, and I have no reason to believe that she
errs in her choice. You are a man of taste and of honour, and you know
the worth of what she has given you. If you render Antoinette happy, you
will find in me a warm friend. I have said all that is necessary; let us
suppose that you have replied to me, and talk of something else."

Samuel Brohl considered the matter settled; he insisted no longer, and
entered at once upon another topic. He knew how to be agreeable and
dignified at the same time. He was as amiable and gracious as his lively
emotion would permit. M. Moriaz was obliged to confess to himself that
Count Larinski was as good company at Cormeilles as he had been at Saint
Moritz, and had no other fault than having taken it into his head to
become his son-in-law.

Their interview was a prolonged one. During this time Antoinette
had been promenading the walk in front of the house, inhaling the
jasmine-perfumed air, pouring out her heart to the night and to the
stars. Her happy reverie was troubled only by the presence of a bat,
flitting incessantly from one end of the terrace to the other, flapping
its wings about her head. The loathsome creature seemed to be
especially in quest of her, circling around and above her with obstinate
persistency, even venturing to graze her hair in passing; Antoinette
even fancied that she could distinguish its hideous