urned and
returned it in his trembling fingers. She grew impatient. "Look at the
place that has been forced open. Don't you know how to read?"

He read, and became stupefied. Who would have believed that this trinket
that he had found among his father's old traps had come to him from
Princess Gulof? that it was the price she had paid for Samuel Brohl's
ignominy and shame? Samuel was a fatalist; he felt that his star had
set, that Fate had conspired to ruin his hopes, that he was found guilty
and condemned. His heart grew heavy within him.

"Can you tell me what I ought to think of a certain Samuel Brohl?" she
asked.

That name, pronounced by her, fell on him like a mass of lead; he never
would have believed that there could be so much weight in a human word.
He trembled under the blow; then he struck his brow with his clinched
hand and replied:

"Samuel Brohl is a man as worthy of your pity as he is of mine. If you
knew all that he has suffered, all that he has dared, you could not help
deeply pitying him and admiring him. Listen to me; Samuel Brohl is an
unfortunate man--"

"Or a wretch!" she interrupted, in a terrible voice. She was seized by
a fit of nervous laughter; she cried out: "Mme. Brohl! I will not be
called Mme. Brohl. Ah! that poor Countess Larinski!"

He had a spasm of rage that would have terrified her had she conjectured
what agitated him. He raised his head, crossed his arms on his breast,
and said, with a bitter smile:

"It was not the man that you loved, it was the count."

She replied, "The man whom I loved never lied."

"Yes, I lied!" he cried, gasping for breath. "I drank that cup of shame
without remorse or disgust. I lied because I loved you madly. I lied
because you were dearer to me than my honour. I lied because I despaired
of touching your heart, and any road seemed good that led to you. Why
did I meet you? why could I not see you without recognising in you the
dream of my whole life? Happiness had passed me by, it was about to take
flight; I caught it in a trap--I lied. Who would not lie, to be loved by
you?"

Samuel Brohl never had looked so handsome. Despair and passion kindled a
sombre flame in his eyes; he had the sinister charm of a fiery Satan.
He fixed on Antoinette a fascinating glance that said: "What matter my
name, my lies, and the rest? My face is not a mask, and I am the man who
pleased you." He had not the least suspicion of the astonishing facility
with which Anto