ly approached Samuel, drew back the
curtains of his bed, and bent towards him, fixing upon him great eager
eyes that he recognised. They were singular eyes, these, at once full of
sweetness and full of fire, of audacity and of candour; a child, a grand
soul, an unbalanced weakling--all this in one was in this gaze.

Samuel Brohl quailed with horror. He tried to speak, but his tongue was
powerless to move. He made desperate efforts to unloose it; he finally
succeeded in moving his lips, and he murmured:

"Is it you, Abel? I believed you dead."

Evidently Count Abel, the veritable Abel Larinski, was not dead. He was
on his feet, his eyes were terribly wide open, and his face never had
worn more life-like colouring. Nothing remained but to believe that
he had been buried alive, and that he had been resuscitated. In coming
forth from the tomb, he had carried with him a portion of its dust;
his hair was covered with a singular powder of an earthy hue, and at
intervals he shook himself as though to make it fall from him.

With the exception of this there was nothing alarming in his appearance;
but a mocking, half-crafty smile played about his lips. After a long
pause, he said to Samuel:

"Yes, it is indeed I. You did not expect me?"

"Are you sure that you are not dead?" rejoined Samuel.

"Perfectly sure," he replied, once more shaking a mass of dust from his
head. "Does my return incommode you, Samuel Brohl?" he added. "Your name
is Samuel, I believe; it is a pretty name. Why have you taken mine? You
must give it back to me."

"Not to-day," pleaded Samuel, in a stifled voice, "nor to-morrow, nor
the day after to-morrow; but after the marriage."

Count Abel burst out laughing, which was by no means his habit, and
which therefore greatly surprised Samuel. Then he cried:

"It is I she will marry--she will be the Countess Larinski."

Suddenly the door opened again, and Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz appeared,
robed in white like a bride, a crown on her head, a bouquet in her
hand. She bent her steps towards Samuel, but the apparition arrested her
progress, saying:

"It is not he whom you love; it is my history. Do you not see that this
is a false Pole? His father was a German Jew, who kept a tavern. Here it
was that this hero grew up. I will relate to you how."

Here Samuel put his hand over his mouth, and stammered: "Oh, for mercy's
sake, say nothing!"

Heeding him not, the apparition continued: "Yes, Samuel Brohl is a