mory that
this is more difficult than any one would fancy. All my old comrades in
deliberation, my friends in council, my companions in the war of later
on are with me at times as I sit and think over the incidents of this
story. The odd part of it is that a thousand things I had forgotten come
back as clearly as if they had happened yesterday, and I should feel a
greater pleasure in dwelling upon them than upon the main incidents to
which I am bound to confine myself. Roaring nights by the camp-fire,
when a chance-found skin of wine made the time glorious; jolly little
touches of mirth and _camaraderie_ here and there; heats of battle,
splendors of victory, miseries of retreat--all come back upon me, and
the faces of many dead comrades people the air.

But to come to my resolution. There is Brunow, who was the fatal cause
of it all; and the Baroness Bonnar, who made her cat's-paw of him; and
Ruffiano, whom the two betrayed between them; and then there are left
the count, and Miss Rossano, and the faithful Hinge. Then there is the
ghost of poor Constance Pleyel, who came like a wraith out of the past
and vanished again into the darkness; then there is myself for the
centre of the story, whether I like it or not. Here are now my _dramatis
persono_ before me. The stage of my mind is crowded with auxiliaries,
but I dare scarcely glance at them.

And who was Constance Pleyel? In a sense she was the motive and
main-spring of my life, for it was she who embarked me on that career of
adventure which has made me what I am.

When I was a very young man indeed I fell in love with Constance Pleyel.
I am not the first man whose life has been set awry by his love for an
unworthy woman, nor shall I be the last. I would very willingly keep
silent about that episode in my life, but the story has to be told. It
shall be told with due reticence; for if I cannot respect poor Constance
any more, I can at least respect the feelings which made her sacred in
my eyes for a year and more in the days of my boyhood.

Months had gone by, and the spring of the year was near at hand. The
count had come back to a condition of health and of mental strength
which was no less than astonishing. I have never ceased to think it
wonderful that a man who had been so long buried from the world, from
all its interests, and from all knowledge of its affairs, should have
been able so readily to take up the lost threads of life. The most
remarkable thing abou