er which many of them bent
their storm-disheveled heads and gazed into the waves below. Here and
there were small inclosed woods, and it was at the edge of one of
these, about a quarter of a mile walk from the town, that the countess
seated herself on a mossy bank in the shade. Wilhelm sat down beside
her on the gnarled root of a tree; Anne was sent home, to return in two
hours' time, but Fido was allowed to remain. He was a silvery-white
sheepdog with a sharp muzzle, stiff little pointed ears, and a bushy
tail curling tightly over his back. He had attached himself to Wilhelm
from the first moment, and gave vent to his delight when caressed by
having a severe attack of asthmatic coughing, puffing and blowing.

"You live in Paris, do you not?" asked the countess after they had
exchanged remarks on the scenery.

"No," returned Wilhelm, "up till now I have lived in Berlin, but I had
to leave for political reasons, and now I am a sort of vagrant without
any actual home."

"Ah--a political refugee!" cried the countess. "How charming! Of course
you will take up your abode in Paris now--that is the sacred tradition
with all political exiles. Yes, yes--you must; beside, how horrid it
would have been to part after a few weeks and go our separate ways--you
to the right, I to the left--and with only the consoling prospect of
meeting again some day beyond the stars! So you will come to Paris, and
if you have any intention of getting up a revolution in Germany, I beg
that you will count me among your confederates. You need not
laugh--Paris is swarming with Spanish refugees of all parties, and I
have had plenty of opportunity of gaining experience in the planning of
conspiracies."

"I have no such ambition," answered Wilhelm, smiling, "and am, in any
case, no politician, although I enjoy the distinction of being an
exile."

"Shall you take up any profession in Paris? I have connections--"

"You are very good, Madame la Comtesse. You will perhaps think less of
me, but I have no actual profession."

"Think less of you. On the contrary, to have no profession is to be
free--to be one's own master. Any one who is forced to earn his living
must, of course, have a profession. But it is never anything but a
necessary evil. It is only pedantic people who look upon it as an
object of life. At most, it is a means to an end."

"And what do you consider to be the real object of life?"

"Can you ask? Why, happiness of course!"

"Happi