t that he is handsome?"

"As handsome as you please. Do you know what I think of when I look at
him? A haunted castle. And I feel curious to make the acquaintance of
the goblins that visit it."

Notwithstanding his promise, Count Larinski did not reappear before the
lapse of three days; but this time he gave all the music that was asked
of him. His memory was surprising, and his whole soul seemed to be
at the ends of his fingers; and he drew marvellous strains from an
instrument which, in itself, was far from being a marvel. He sang, too;
he had a barytone voice, mellow and resonant. After having hummed in a
low tone some Roumanic melodies, he struck up one of his own national
songs. This he failed to finish; tears started in his eyes, emotion
overpowered his voice. He broke off abruptly, asking pardon for the
weakness that had caused him to make himself ridiculous; but one glance
at Mlle. Moriaz convinced him that she did not find him ridiculous.

A most invaluable resource, indeed, in a mountain-country where the
evenings are long, is a Pole who knows how to talk and to sing. M.
Moriaz liked music; but he liked something else besides. When he could
not go into society and was forbidden to work, he grew sleepy after
dinner; in order to rouse himself he was glad to play a hand of
_bezique_ or _ecarte_. For want of some one better, he played with
Mlle. Moiseney; but this make-shift was little to his taste; he disliked
immensely coming into too close proximity with the pinched visage and
yellow ribbons of Pope Joan. He proposed to Count Larinski to take a
hand with him, and his proposal was accepted with the best grace in the
world. "Decidedly this man is good for everything," thought M. Moriaz,
and he conceived a great liking for him. The result was, that during an
entire week Count Abel passed every evening at the Hotel Badrutt.

"Your father is a most peculiar man," said Mlle. Moiseney, indignantly,
to Antoinette. "He is shockingly egotistical. He has confiscated M.
Larinski. The idea of employing such a man as that to play _bezique_! He
will stop coming."

But the count's former savageness seemed wholly subdued. He did not stop
coming.

One evening M. Moriaz committed an imprudence. In making an odd trick,
he carelessly asked M. Larinski who had been his piano professor.

"One whose portrait I always carry about me," was the reply.

And, drawing from his vest-pocket a medallion, he presented it to M.
Moriaz,