A letter from Emilius! The words seemed to burn themselves on my brain. The tone in which they were uttered denoted satisfaction. It was unreasonable, I knew, to torture myself about such a trifle, but my love for Lauretta was so absorbing that the least thing was sufficient to prick it into misery. I felt that I might as well be jealous of the air that kissed her cheek as of a man whom I had never seen, and who had given me absolutely no cause for jealousy. I do not attempt to justify myself; I simply record the fact.

After reading the letter Doctor Louis put it in his pocket, and to my great comfort presently spoke upon the subject that occupied my mind. Had he not done so I should myself have managed to approach it, and in so doing might have betrayed myself, as I feared would be the case when Lauretta had mentioned the names of Eric and Emilius. The doctor commenced by asking whether in any of our conversations he had ever referred to two young friends of his, Eric and Emilius, from one of whom he had just received a letter. I answered No, but that once Lauretta had spoken of them in a tone which made me curious about them.

"They are brothers, I believe," I observed.

"Yes," said Doctor Louis, "twin brothers, who commenced life with a strange history--which," he added, "somewhat reverses the order of things."

"Are they young?" I asked.

"Within a year or two of your own age. In all likelihood you and they will meet. If I thought the story would interest you I would relate it."

"It would be certain to interest me," I said, with a successful attempt at calmness, "if only for the reason that Lauretta first spoke to me of the brothers. She said they were handsome, brave, and strong, and that she was sure I should like them."

"Did she say so much?" said Doctor Louis. "But, after all, that is not strange, for they and she were playmates together when they were quite young children. It is, however, a long time since they met. Eric and Emilius left Nerac three years ago, for the purpose of travelling and seeing something of the world."

"Lauretta spoke of them as special friends."

"Yes, yes; women of her and her mother's stamp are very constant in their friendships and affections. The esteem of such is worth the winning; and you, Gabriel, have won it.

"It has rejoiced me to believe so; it rejoices me still more to hear you confirm my belief."

"Let what I tell you of these young men be in confidence between us."

"It shall be, sir."

"My wife is familiar with the story, but I doubt whether Lauretta has ever heard it. There is, in truth, a mystery in it."

"Which will make it all the more interesting."

"Perhaps, perhaps. There is in the human mind a strange leaning towards the weird and fantastic."

Before we returned to Nerac on the evening of this day Doctor Louis fulfilled his promise, and told me the story of these brothers, which, however, so far as they were concerned, proved to be but an epilogue to the play.

"It will serve our purpose," commenced Doctor Louis, "and will tend to brevity and simplicity, if in what I am about to narrate I use only Christian names. Silvain was the father of Eric and Emilius; and strangely enough, these young fellows being twins, their father was twin brother to Kristel. With Silvain I was well acquainted, and what I learned and knew of him was admirable. Kristel I knew less intimately, having fewer opportunities. My first meeting with Silvain took place in England, long before I met my wife. On the continent it is the practice of many fathers to send their sons to foreign countries for a few years, to see something of other customs than their own before they settle down to the serious business of life. My father did so by me, and I travelled through most of Europe, and profited I hope. However that may be, when I was two and twenty years of age I found myself in England, and in that wonderland, London. I do not know whether I should have liked to become a resident in that turbulent city; we grow accustomed to things, and I have grown accustomed to the quiet peaceful life I am living and have lived for many happy years in our lovely village. It presents itself to me in the form in which I feel it, as a phase of human happiness which is not to be excelled. Doubtless it would not do for all to think as I do; but each man for himself, so long as he is living a life that, to a fair extent, is useful to others.

"Well do I remember the evening on which I first met Silvain. He was standing at the money office of an opera house; between him and the money-taker some difficulty had arisen with respect to the payment, and Silvain, being but imperfectly acquainted with the language, had a difficulty in understanding and in making himself understood. I put the matter straight for them, and Silvain and I entered the opera house together, and sat next to each other during the performance. Being foreigners we naturally conversed, and the foundation of a friendship was laid which was as sincere on his side as it was on mine. We made an appointment to meet on the following day, and thereafter for a long while travelled in company, and were seldom apart. Confidences, of course, were exchanged, and we became familiar with each other's personal history. Mine was simple, and was soon told; his had an element of strange mystery in it. In the relation of his story I noted what was to me very touching and pathetic, and what to him had been the cause of a great sorrow. He had, as I have informed you, a twin brother, Kristel, from whom, until he set out for his travels, he had never been separated. But their father, for some reason which I failed to discover, and which also was not understood by Silvain, had resolved that his sons should not travel in company, and had mapped out their separate routes in so cunning a manner that, without violating his instructions, they could not meet. This was a heavy grief to them. Born within a few minutes of each other, they had lived, as it were, wedded lives; side by side and hand in hand they had grown from boyhood to manhood, shared troubles and pleasures, and were in rare and perfect harmony. When one rejoiced the other rejoiced, when one was sad the other was sad. The severance of two such natures was therefore no common severance, and the scene of their last meeting and parting, as described to me by Silvain, must have been heartrending.

"'I felt,' said Silvain, 'as if I had lost the better part of myself--nay, as if I had lost my very self. But that I was conscious, and amenable to ordinary human sensations, I should have doubted that I lived. It is impossible for me to describe my despair; and my brother suffered as I suffered. I gathered this from his letters, as he must have gathered the knowledge of my sufferings from mine. Happily we were not debarred from the consolation of corresponding with each other. Not only routes but dates had been carefully prepared by our father, and I knew from day to day where Kristel was, and where he would be to-morrow. One night--I was in Spain at the time--I had a vivid dream, in which Kristel played the principal part. It was, as most dreams are, panoramic, phantasmagoric. There was a lake; upon it a pleasure boat; in the boat six persons, two boatmen, two ladies, and two gentlemen. One of the gentlemen was Kristel; the faces of the others were strange to me. They were laughing and singing and conversing gaily. The sails were set, and the boat was ploughing its way swiftly onwards. Suddenly the clouds which had been fair, became overcast; the boatmen were busy with the sails. A lurch, and one of the ladies was in the water, struggling for life. Her white arms were upraised, her face was blanched with terror; in a moment she sank. Then my brother stood upright in the boat, and plunged into the lake. All was confusion. A whirl of clouds, of human faces, of troubled waters, upon the surface of which Kristel appeared, supporting the insensible form of the lady. They were pulled into the boat, and my dream ended. I awoke, much agitated, and when the violent beating of my heart abated, I wrote an account of my dream, omitting no detail. In my next letter to Kristel, I said nothing of my dream, but on the fifth day I received one from him In which he gave me an account of the perilous adventure, his description tallying exactly with all the particulars of my dream. In this way I discovered that there was between me and Kristel a strange, mysterious link of sympathy, through which each was made acquainted with any danger or peril which threatened the other.'"