Samuel Brohl and Company | Page 3

audacity; but
she did not seek to appear audacious--she merely acted according to her
natural bent. Observing her from a distance, people were apt to fancy
her affected, and somewhat inclined to be fantastic; but on approaching
her, their minds were speedily disabused of this fancy. The purity of
her countenance, her air of refinement and thorough modesty, speedily
dispelled any suspicious thoughts, and those who had for a moment
harboured them would say mentally, "Pardon me, mademoiselle, I
mistook." Such, at least, was the mental comment of Count Abel, as she
passed close by him on leaving the church. Her father was telling her
something that made her smile; this smile was that of a young girl just
budding into womanhood, who has nothing yet to conceal from her
guardian angel. Count Larinski left the church after her, and followed
her with his eyes as she crossed the square. On returning to the hotel he
had a curiosity to satisfy. He questioned one of the garcons, who
pointed out to him in the hotel register for travellers the following entry:
"M. Moriaz, member of the Institute of France, and his daughter, from

Paris, en route for Saint Moritz." "And where then?" he asked himself;
then dismissed the subject from his mind.
When he had dined, he repaired to the post-office to inquire for a letter
he was expecting from Vienna. He found it, and returned to shut
himself up in his chamber, where he tore open the envelope with a
feverish hand. This letter, written in a more peculiar than felicitous
French, was the reply of the Jew banker. It read as follows:
"M. LE COMTE:
"Although you both write and understand German very well, you do
not like to read it, and therefore I write to you in French. It grieves me
deeply not to have it in my power to satisfy your honoured demand.
Business is very dull. It is impossible for me to advance you another
florin, or even to renew your note, which falls due shortly. I am the
father of a family; it pains me to be compelled to remind you of this.
"I wish to tell you quite freely what I think. I did believe in your gun,
but I believe in it no longer, no one believes in it any more. When
strong, it was too heavy; when you made it lighter, it was no longer
strong. What came next? You know it burst. Beware how you further
perfect it, or it will explode whenever it becomes aware that any one is
looking at it. This accursed gun has eaten up the little you had, and
some of my savings besides, although I have confidence that you will,
at least, pay me the interest due on that. It grieves me to tell you so, M.
de Comte, but all inventors are more or less crack-brained, and end in
the hospital. For the love of God, leave guns as they are, and invent
nothing more, or you will go overboard, and there will be no one to fish
you out."
Abel Larinski paused at this place. He put his letter down on the table,
and, turning round in his arm-chair, with a savage air, his eye fixed on a
distant corner of the room, he fell to thus soliloquizing in a sepulchral
voice:
"Do you hear, idiot? This old knave is right. Accursed be the day when
the genius of invention thrilled your sublime brain! A grand discovery

you have made, forsooth! What have I gained from it? Grand illusions,
grand discomfitures! What hath it availed me that I passed whole nights
discussing with you breech-loaders, screw-plates, tumbrels, sockets,
bridges, ovoid balls, and spring-locks? What fruits have I gained from
these refreshing conversations? You foresaw everything, my great man,
except that one little thing which great men so often fail to see, that
mysterious something, I know not what, which makes success. When
you spoke to me, in your slow, monotonous tones, when you fixed
upon me your melancholy gaze, I should have been able to read in your
eyes that you were only a fool. The devil take thee and thy gun, thy gun
and thee; hollow head, head full of chimeras, true Pole, true Larinski!"
To whom was Count Abel speaking? To a phantom? To his double? He
alone knew. When he had uttered the last words, he resumed the
perusal of his letter, which ended thus:
"Will you permit me to give you a piece of advice, M. le Comte, a good
little piece of advice? I have known you for three years, and have taken
much interest in your welfare. You invent guns, which, when they are
strong, lack lightness. I beg your pardon, but I do not comprehend you,
M.