s 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