gilded bronze, so that an upper drawer flew open, and
taking from it a sealed parchment envelope, she walked up to the table,
and placed this packet before the notary, who, hitherto silent and
motionless, received it mechanically from her.

Then, casting upon Gabriel, who seemed fascinated by her presence, a
long, mild, melancholy look, this woman directed her steps towards the
hall, the door of which had remained open. As she passed near Samuel and
Bathsheba, who were still kneeling, she stopped an instant, bowed her
fair head towards them, and looked at them with tender solicitude. Then,
giving them her hands to kiss, she glided away as slowly as she had
entered--throwing a last glance upon Gabriel. The departure of this
woman seemed to break the spell under which all present had remained for
the last few minutes. Gabriel was the first to speak, exclaiming, in an
agitated voice. "It is she--again--here--in this house!"

"Who, brother?" said Agricola, uneasy at the pale and almost wild
looks of the missionary; for the smith had not yet remarked the strange
resemblance of the woman to the portrait, though he shared in the
general feeling of amazement, without being able to explain it to
himself. Dagobert and Faringhea were in a similar state of mind.

"Who is this woman?" resumed Agricola, as he took the hand of Gabriel,
which felt damp and icy cold.

"Look!" said the young priest. "Those portraits have been there for more
than a century and a half."

He pointed to the paintings before which he was now seated, and
Agricola, Dagobert, and Faringhea raised their eyes to either side of
the fireplace. Three exclamations were now heard at once.

"It is she--it is the same woman!" cried the smith, in amazement, "and
her portrait has been here for a hundred and fifty years!"

"What do I see?" cried Dagobert, as he gazed at the portrait of the man.
"The friend and emissary of Marshal Simon. Yes! it is the same face that
I saw last year in Siberia. Oh, yes! I recognize that wild and sorrowful
air--those black eyebrows, which make only one!"

"My eyes do not deceive me," muttered Faringhea to himself, shuddering
with horror. "It is the same man, with the black mark on his forehead,
that we strangled and buried on the banks of the Ganges--the same man,
that one of the sons of Bowanee told me, in the ruins of Tchandi, had
been met by him afterwards at one of the gates of Bombay--the man of the
fatal curse, who scatters dea