But first of all Brand ushered his guests into the long, low-roofed chamber, and drew the portieres across the middle, so that Waters might have an apartment for his luncheon preparations.  Then he opened the letter.  Kirski remained at the door, with his cap in his hand.

* * * * *

“My much-esteemed friend,”—­Calabressa wrote, in his ornate, ungrammatical, and phonetic French—­“the poor devil who is the bearer of this letter is known to you, and yet not altogether known to you.  You know something of his conversion from a wild beast into a man—­from the tiger into a devotee; but you do not, my friend, perhaps entirely know how his life has become absorbed in one worship, one aspiration, one desire.  The means of the conversion, the instrument, you know, have I not myself before described it to you?  The harassed and bleeding heart, crushed with scorn and filled with despair—­how can a man live with that in his bosom?  He wishes to die.  The world has been too cruel to him.  But all at once an angel appears; into the ruins of the wasted life a seed of kindness is dropped, and then behold the beautiful flower of love springing up—­love that becomes a worship, a religion!  Yes, I have said so much before to you; now I say more; now I entreat you not to check this beautiful worship—­it is sacred.  This man goes round the churches; he stands before the pictures of the saints; he wanders on unsatisfied:  he says there is no saint like the beautiful one in England, who healed him with her soft words when he was sick to death.  But now, my dear Monsieur Brand, I hear you say to yourself, ’What is my friend Calabressa after now?  Has he taken to the writings of pious sermons?  Is he about to shave his head and put a rope round his waist?  My faith, that is not like that fellow Calabressa!’ You are right, my friend.  I describe the creation of the devotee; it is a piece of poetry, as one might say.  But your devotee must have his amulet; is it not so?  This is the meaning and prayer of my letter to you.  The bearer of it was willing to do us a great service; perhaps—­if one must confess it—­he believed it was on behalf of the beautiful Natalushka and her father that he was to undertake the duty that now devolves on some other.  One must practice a little finesse sometimes; what harm is there?  Very well.  Do you know what he seeks by way of reward—­what he considers the most valuable thing in the world?  It is a portrait of his saint, you understand?  That is the amulet the devotee would have.  And I do not further wish to write to her; no, because she would say, ’What, that is a little matter to do for my friend Calabressa.’  No; I write to you—­I write to one who has knowledge of affairs—­and I say to myself, ’If he considers it prudent, then he will ask the beautiful child to give her portrait to this one who will worship it.’  I have declared to him that I will make the request; I make it.  Do not consider