indifferent to public opinion and consulted her own taste alone, which was certainly impregnated with a touch of 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.”