sisted this proposition, giving reasons that sounded
like mere pretences. A rumbling of thunder was heard. M. Moriaz took
his man by the arm, and led him in by force. He presented him to
his daughter, saying: "Antoinette, let me present to you M. le Comte
Larinski, a most excellent man, but little inclined to sociability. I
was compelled to use violence in bringing him here."

The count acknowledged these remarks with a constrained smile. He wore
the manner of a prisoner; but, as he prided himself on his good-breeding
and on his philosophy, he seemed to be endeavouring to make the best
of his prison. During dinner he was grave. He treated Antoinette with
frigid politeness, paid some attention to Mlle. Moiseney, but reserved
his chief assiduities for Mr. Moriaz. He addressed his conversation
more particularly to him, and listened to him with profound respect. A
professor is always sensible to this kind of courtesy.

After the coffee was served, the crusting of ice in which Count Abel had
incased himself began to thaw. He had been all over the world; he knew
the United States and Turkey, New Orleans and Bucharest, San Francisco
and Constantinople. His travels had been profitable to him: he had
observed men and things, countries and institutions, customs and laws,
the indigenous races and the settlers, all but the transient visitors,
with whom he seemed to have had no time to occupy himself; at least they
formed no part of his conversation. He related several anecdotes, with
some show of sprightliness; his melancholy began to melt away, he even
indulged in little bursts of gaiety, and Antoinette could not avoid
comparing him and his discourse to some of the more rigorous passages of
the Engadine, where, amid the black shades of the pines, among frowning
rocks, there are to be found lilies, gentians, and lakes.

He resumed his gravity to reply to a question of M. Moriaz concerning
Poland. "Unhappy Poland!" cried he. "To-day the Jew is its master.
Active, adroit, inventive, little scrupulous, he makes capital out of
our indolence and our improvidence. He has over us one great advantage,
which is simply that, while we live from day to day, he possesses a
notion of a to-morrow; we despise him, and we could not do without him.
We are always thirsty, and he supplies us with drink; we never have
ready money, and he loans it to us at an enormous rate of interest; we
cannot return it to him, and he reimburses himself by seizing ou