When he had finished reading the letter, and replaced it in the envelope, he remained thoughtful for some moments; he was wondering how he should proceed to announce the excellent news.  For three weeks his daughter had been a mystery to him.  She never once had pronounced the name of Count Larinski.  Churwalden pleased her as much as Saint Moritz; apparently, she was gay, tranquil, perfectly happy.  Had her delusion passed away?  Had she changed her mind?  M. Moriaz did not know; but he surmised that still waters should be mistrusted, and that a young girl’s imagination is like an abyss.  One thoroughly good warning is worth two indifferent ones; henceforth, he feared everything.  “If I speak to her,” thought he, “I shall not be able to dissimulate my joy, and perhaps she will go into hysterics.”  He had a horror of hysterics; he resolved to have recourse to Mlle. Moiseney, and he said to her, abruptly: 

“I suppose, mademoiselle, that you are acquainted with all that has passed, and that Antoinette has given you her confidence?”

She opened her eyes wide, and was on the point of answering that she knew nothing; but she restrained herself, and setting her little pointed head erect on her thin shoulders, she said, proudly, “Can you imagine that Antoinette would keep any secrets from me?”

“Heaven forbid!” replied he.  “And do you approve, do you encourage her sentiments for M. Larinski?”

Mlle. Moiseney started; she had been far from suspecting that Count Larinski had specially impressed Mlle. Moriaz, and, as on certain occasions her mind worked rapidly, she understood immediately all the consequences of this prodigious event.  There was a cloud before her eyes, and in this cloud she beheld all manner of things, both pleasing and displeasing to her; her mouth open, she strove to clear her ideas.  She said to herself:  “It is an imprudent act; not only that, it cannot be;” but she also said:  “Mlle. Antoinette can no more make a mistake than the Queen of England can; because she wishes it, she is right in wishing it.”  Mlle. Moiseney ended by regaining her self-possession; her lips formed the most pleasant smile, as she exclaimed: 

“He has no fortune, but he has a beautiful name.  Mme. la Comtesse Larinski! it sounds well to the ear.”

“Like music; I grant, it is perfect,” rejoined M. Moriaz.  “Unfortunately, music is not everything in the affairs of this world.”

She was not listening to him.  Full of her own idea, without taking time to breathe:  “You jest, monsieur,” she continued, with extraordinary volubility.  “Believe me or not, I have foreseen this marriage for some time.  I have presentiments that never deceive me.  I was sure that it would be thus.  What a handsome couple!  Fancy them driving in an open carriage through the park, or entering a proscenium-box at the opera!  They will make a sensation.  And truly, without boasting, I think I may call your attention to the fact that I have been of some account in the affair.  The first time I saw Count Larinski, you know, at the table d’hote in Bergun, I recognised at once that he was beyond comparison—­”