face, with deep
pouches and long ears, and she moved away, quivering with disgust.

She heard a step on the gravel-walk. Samuel Brohl had taken leave of
M. Moriaz and was crossing the terrace to regain his carriage. He
recognised Antoinette, approached her and clasped on her wrist a
bracelet he held in his hand, saying as he did so: "What could I give
you that would equal in value the medallion you deigned to offer me and
that should never leave me? However, here is a trinket by which I set
great store. My mother loved it; she always refused to part with it,
even in the time of her greatest distress; she wore it on her arm when
she died."

We are not all moulded alike; and there is no human clay in which are
not intermingled some spangles of gold. Intriguers as well as downright
knaves are often capable of experiencing moments of sincere and pure
sentiments; in certain encounters every human being rises superior to
him-or herself. The upper part of Mlle. Moriaz's face was shaded by her
red hood, the lower part lit up by the moon, which was slowly rising
above the hills. Samuel Brohl contemplated her in silence; she seemed
to him as beautiful as a dream. During two entire minutes he forgot that
she had an income of a hundred thousand livres, and that, according to
all probabilities, M. Moriaz would die one day. His head was completely
turned by the thought that this woman loved him, that soon she would be
his. Yes, for precisely two minutes, Samuel Brohl was as passionately in
love with Mlle. Moriaz as might, perchance, have been Count Larinski.

He could not resist the impulse that transported him. He folded in his
arms the slender, supple form of Antoinette, and imprinted upon her hair
a kiss of flame, a true Polish kiss. She offered no resistance; but at
this moment the bat that had already forced upon her its distasteful
company renewed the attack, struck her full in the face, and stuck fast
in her hood. Antoinette felt the touch of its cold, clammy wings, of
its hooked claws. She tore the hood from her head and flung it away in
horror. Samuel Brohl sprang forward to pick it up, pressed it to his
lips, and made his escape, like a thief carrying off his booty.

When Antoinette re-entered the _salon_, she found there Mlle. Moiseney,
whose boisterous, overwhelming joy had just put M. Moriaz to flight.
This time Mlle. Moiseney knew everything. She had seen Samuel Brohl
arrive, she had been unable to control her overw