"H----, July, 1863.

"The Russians had scarcely vacated the village when the insurgents arrived. They marched through the streets, bearing a banner on which the national colours were surmounted by a white eagle painted on wood. They were a small band of men, armed for the most part with scythes and pike-staffs, while some had only heavy sticks with pointed iron ends. There were no uniforms. Each one was equipped and clad as circumstances had permitted at the time of his enrolment. Their forms were strong, and their faces expressed energy already clouded by dark despair. All knew that they were marching to certain death, and knew not what torture or misery awaited them.

"The body of Ivas had been cut down after the execution, but the gibbet still presented its gloomy front to the market-place. The chief of the insurgents saluted it, and inclined his head, and all his troop followed his example. It was a mute and solemn homage rendered to a martyr.

"I could not help feeling for these men a sentiment in which was mingled compassion, sympathy, and respect.

"The young commander recognized me, for he had seen me with Ivas at Warsaw. He was much affected to hear from me that the condemned man had been our mutual friend. 'One of our bravest,' murmured he; 'but our country demands such sacrifices. Oh, if only we were better armed!'

"Our conversation was not of long duration. The detachment had entered the village only to recruit, and succeeded in gaining a dozen volunteers. They also found some guns and swords, dating from 1831, covered with rust.

"This heroism in poverty transported me back several centuries to the times when the Israelites rose against Roman oppression. Here was the same self-sacrificing spirit, the same love of liberty. My eyes filled with tears, and thoughts came into my head that I had not before entertained.

"Let us go with them, thought I. Let us die in the ranks of these heroes. It is glorious to shed one's blood for his brothers.

"Yesterday I would have hesitated. To-day I felt around me such an empty void that the future appeared aimless, and the thought of action inspired me. I, who had refused money for the revolution, I would offer my life. This seems strange, does it not? But do not condemn me without reflection. It is necessary to seal the act of alliance, contracted between the Israelites and Poles. My example will prove that this alliance is accomplished.

"This letter, friend of my youth, is like my last testament.

"I recommend to you my mother. Let my brother Israelites know why I have taken this step. I owe to the mission that we have received from God to return again to the past of an elect people. This mission is, to be more noble, more devout, and more loving than other men.

"Farewell! You already know all I wish to say, for you have always been the confidante of my inmost thoughts. It is you who have inspired me with the resolution I have taken. If you had left me the shadow of a hope, I would, perhaps, have valued my life more; but you said one evening that a woman ought to be the wife of one man only, and as at the same time my brother Israelites have refused to listen to my voice, I am convinced that I am useless here below.

"Do not regret me. God will give me grace to meet death joyfully.

"To-morrow we leave here. I am well equipped. I have bought a horse and arms; I shall serve as a private soldier, for there are already too many leaders.

"God is great; the soul is immortal, and pure spirits may, perhaps, meet again in another world."

The reader has already divined that this was a letter addressed by Jacob to Mathilde. We have suppressed the commencement, which related to events spoken of in the preceding pages.

Henri Segel received it in his mail, and hastened to take it to his wife.

"What can it be?" asked he.

"A letter from Jacob," she replied, without hesitation, recognizing his writing.

She read it hastily.

"What has become of him," asked Henri again.

"He has joined the insurrection."

"Ah, it wanted only that! He has done us a great injury. The government will imagine that we are all more or less implicated in his folly. But is the thing certain?"

"There is no doubt whatever," and Mathilde read with a trembling voice a passage from the letter. The husband seeing her so agitated left her, and himself became thoughtful and gloomy.

The news spread from mouth to mouth over the city. Some refused to believe it, while others rejoiced at it. Jacob had no warm friends, and few were sorry for him.

The same evening Sofronof went in triumph to Muse.

"Well! He has joined the insurgents, this man that you accused me of suspecting without motive!"

"You jest. Was he not the enemy of the revolution?"

"Yet he has enlisted under their banner. The Poles are all the same. The sight of their eaglet always has an irresistible attraction for them."

"It is nothing to me," replied Muse; "but I will not believe it without more ample information."

Just then Henri Segel arrived and confirmed the news. He had a dejected air, and was careful not to speak of the letter the colonel had had in his hand that morning. He well knew that all suspicious letters were read before the distribution of the post.

Mathilde's father also was much chagrined on hearing the news. Without deep feeling, he had, nevertheless, a certain affection for his cousin. Perhaps, also, he counted on him for restoring to health his daughter, whom he saw daily fade before his eyes. Without saying anything, he hastened to Mathilde at the hour when he was sure to find her alone. The servant said to him that she was ill, and had given orders to admit no one; but the father, using his authority, went straight to her bedroom. He found her with disordered hair, eyes red with weeping, and cheeks burning with fever. Mathilde was no longer the marble statue, cold, resigned, impassable, inert.

At the sight of an unexpected visitor she blushed with the timidity of a child. But her education had inculcated a respect, almost a veneration, for her father, who had repelled all familiarity, all confidence; she tried, with a forced smile, to conceal the violence of her grief.

"I pity Jacob," said the father abruptly. "He courts his ruin; I wish to save him."

"But how can you?" asked the daughter.

Samuel did not reply immediately. He took several steps about the room. It cost him something to be, for the first time in his life, frank with his child. Suddenly he stopped before her, and, looking at her fixedly, said:--

"Your secret is known to me. Common sense has until now commanded me to close my eyes. But the time has come to treat the wound by severe cauterization. Now or never. You love Jacob, and he loves you. This love has not died out. I believed that your childish affection would disappear, but, contrary to my expectations, it has remained permanent, and surpasses all my ideas of love. You are unhappy with Henri; he was not made for you; his spirit is earthly, and yours is exalted in a high degree."

"Nevertheless," said Mathilde, "I have nothing to say against Henri."

"You mean that he observes the proprieties; and yet he has let himself be fascinated by Muse, who deceives and despoils him. Do you wish to save Jacob? You can do it; you alone. I will arrange a divorce with Henri. He is anxious for it. Give your consent, and the thing is done; then I will marry you to Jacob, who will make you happy. You can live in Italy, and in a few years, when the country is again peaceful, you can return to Poland. I will obtain Jacob's amnesty; I have influence enough for that."

Mathilde kissed her father's hand, and said:--

"Dear father, I have never seen you as you are today, so sympathetic toward your child, so thoughtful for Jacob. Do not be angry, do not tell me that I am foolish, but it is impossible."

"Why? Why?"

Mathilde replied with timidity:--

"I love him too well to throw myself in his arms. I, a poor faded creature, broken and soiled by another. Do you understand me?"

"No! Truly! This is refinement which is beyond my comprehension, a morbid sentimentality. You say you love him? The devil! What more do you want?"

Mathilde, sighing, replied:--

"I have dreamed of a different kind of happiness."

"Give up these reveries, and content yourself with the reality. Do you accept my proposition? Yes or no?"

"Read his letter," said she, drawing near to the lamp. "Here it is; I will reply afterward."

Samuel took the letter, and commenced to read it attentively. Mathilde retired to the next room, which was not lighted. She sank into meditation. She was torn by two conflicting feelings: her unworthiness of becoming Jacob's wife, and the desire to belong to the man she loved. In her perplexity she seemed to hear an inner voice which said, "Let your father decide." At the same time she accused herself of weakness, and her heart beat violently.

"The letter," said her father, "confirms me in my opinion. You alone can save him. A strange dreamer is your Jacob; but, after all, he possesses that which most of us lack,--firm principles and profound convictions. One esteems him in spite of one's self."

Not caring to appear in the full light, the young woman murmured in an agitated voice:--

"I am proud of you, my father. Dispose of your child as you please." Then she threw herself at his knees, and Samuel felt awaken in his heart feelings which he had not believed himself capable of indulging.

Lifting her up tenderly, he said, smiling:--

"I will attend to the affair. Sit down and write to Jacob that you are free. He has only to equip fifty or a hundred soldiers to replace him, and excuse his retirement."

He spoke with a rapidity and warmth that surprised himself, and he experienced a sensation of happiness altogether novel to him.

When his daughter had finished the letter, he kissed her tenderly, and whispered in her ear:--

"Not a word of this to Henri. I will manage everything, and spare you needless annoyance."

Soon after Samuel appeared at the salon of the Wtorkowskas. The siren was at the piano, surrounded by her Muscovite gallants, who, listening, forgot their administrative cares. Under cover of a general movement, he quietly drew near Madame Wtorkowska.

"I have something to say to you, madame," whispered he. "It is about an important matter that concerns you."

"Very good!" replied she, rising and taking his arm. "Come to my room."

When they were alone, Samuel asked:--

"No one can hear us, I hope? I wish to speak to you with entire frankness."

"Do as you would in your own house," replied she.

"To play a part is disagreeable to me, and so to open the matter I will tell you, without reserve, that I know that you are ruined, dear madame."

"Softly, softly!"

"Softly, softly! I am aware that your only fortune is your debts. Your only hope is your daughter. To find a rich husband is not so easy. I am sure that these are your opinions."

"We have several persons in view, monsieur."

"Who are they?"

"Count Bavorof."

"Bah! A Russian who has no fortune but his position. Beside, he is married. His wife lives in Paris, and has no wish to be free, and in Russia divorce can be obtained only by special influence. I do not think you would be willing to give Muse to the count."

"What nonsense you are talking."

"Who next?"

"Colonel Sofronof is madly in love."

"In the Russian fashion. Sofronof lives by his appointments and thefts. He possesses some land, mortgaged to its full value. Let him pass. Next?"

"The counsellor of state, Pikulinski."

"What! that old fool?"

"For a husband it does not matter."

"That is true. In marriage, foolishness is at times a good quality; but his little property is pledged to the CrÉdit Foncier. Your counsellor is a nobody. His emoluments are too slender. Another?"

Madame Wtorkowska sighed deeply. She was at the end of her list, for it was hardly worth while to mention, after the counsellor, two petty officials who possessed only their titles and their brilliant uniforms. Naturally she dared not suggest Henri Segel to his father-in-law.

"Why, madame," replied Samuel, "are you lacking in sincerity, when I come to chat with you in the most confidential manner?"

"And whence comes, monsieur, this suddenly friendly guardianship for my daughter and myself?"

"Your question is logical. It may be possible that I am myself interested in the affair, and that may be the cause of my solicitude to serve you. Confess, then, with an open heart. Do not hesitate to mention the name of my son-in-law, whom you have so entangled."

"What do you mean? I cannot shut my door on Monsieur Segel."

"I know your plans, dear lady," replied Samuel laughing. "Let us show our cards and be friends. You have speculated--own it--on Mathilde's phthisis. You have even wished that her physician would confirm your hopes. Bitter deception! And during this time you have endeavoured to ensnare Henri, and you have made an easy conquest. Now, listen to me, madame. My daughter cannot be happy with him. I cede him to you. Take him. Try and persuade him to demand a divorce; the initiative will never come from Mathilde. You will have me for an accomplice. I give him up freely. Do what you wish, provided you rid me of him. Do you now understand the cause of my solicitude for you?"

Madame Wtorkowska was stupefied. She stood still a moment. Then her joy overcame her. She threw her arms around Samuel's neck, and kissed him several times; but, as he did not enjoy the caresses of elderly matrons, he freed himself from her embraces, and said:--

"Twenty or twenty-five years ago this exuberance of affection on your part would have charmed me. To-day it is too late. I am too old. What do you think of my proposition?"

"Dear benefactor," replied she, wiping the perspiration from her face with her handkerchief, "I cannot reply without consulting Emusia. In a few moments my rooms will be empty; she will see you herself. Wait here."

"With pleasure, madame; but I will light a cigar if you will permit it."

"Ten if you wish," replied the mother, closing the door on Samuel.

There were still some visitors in the salon. She made a secret sign to her daughter, and a few moments afterward Muse complained of a headache. Her admirers regretfully took their hats and left the house. The particulars of the interview were soon learned, and her delight was equal to that of her mother.

Nevertheless, before going to meet Samuel, she assumed a calm and dignified mien.

"Your mother has no doubt spoken of my proposition. Let us discuss, then, without restraint," said Mathilde's father.

"But, monsieur, the subject is so delicate, so embarrassing, so painful."

"Painful, mademoiselle, in what way? Not for you; nor for me, I think. Delicate. Yes! Let us treat it with delicacy."

"I like Mathilde so much," said Muse.

"Then you will give her a real proof of your friendship by delivering her of a husband who does not suit her, who will suit you, and who loves you."

Muse tried to appear very much embarrassed.

"Dear mademoiselle," said Samuel, "we can dispense with acting; you can gain nothing by it. I ask of you entire frankness. If you wish to succeed, you must act. Make Henri believe that Sofronof is a dangerous rival. I will tell everywhere that the colonel wishes to marry you at any price. Henri will be in despair; then push him to the end of the wall; exact a divorce, and advise him to take Mann for an intermediary between him and me."

"That is admirably planned," cried Madame Wtorkowska.

"Yes, the plan is excellent," added Muse, putting aside all embarrassment. "I am sure I shall play my part to the satisfaction of its author."

"Well, I will be obliged to you if you do not make the play long. I am anxious for the end."

"I will do my best."

"I do not doubt that you will accomplish wonders," said Samuel, gallantly kissing her hand. "And now, mademoiselle, do not fail to tell me if I can be in any way useful to you at any time."

He then took his leave. Madame Wtorkowska conducted him to the antechamber, and then returned to throw herself in her daughter's arms. She laughed and wept by turns for very joy. Muse was more quiet, but no less delighted, and she passed part of the night making plans for the morrow.

The news soon spread through their circle of acquaintances that Mademoiselle Wtorkowska was soon to marry Colonel Sofronof. At first Henri shrugged his shoulders; but he heard it from so many different sources, with details added by this one and that one, that he grew uneasy, and, wishing to hear the rumour denied, hastened to Muse.

She received him coldly, and was so reticent on the subject that it seemed as if she were on her guard, and afraid of committing some indiscretion.

Segel thought that there must be some truth in the rumour. He became furiously angry, and the ingenious coquette soon brought about a quarrel. He took his hat, and she did not detain him; but at the door he paused, then returned, threw his hat on the floor, and seated himself again, filled with wrath.

A violent scene ensued. Her mother appeared as the deus ex machina. She reproached Henri with compromising her daughter, and called him selfish and heartless. The comedy waxed pathetic. Finally, Henri had to choose between a dismissal or a divorce. Vanquished and subdued, he promised to take at once the steps required by them.

Muse then feigned to shed tears, and he tried to console her. Her mother disappeared, leaving the lovers alone. Segel obtained some kisses, and advice to take Monsieur Mann as an intermediary, and he promised to see Mann at once. Mann, well instructed, at first resisted, moralized, and deplored the situation, but ended by consenting.

And yet, when Henri returned home, he experienced a strange feeling of repentance for his haste. Mathilde presented herself to his mind as calm, sweet, and pure; Muse, on the contrary, under a menacing aspect. The one he did not love, but esteemed; the other he loved, but did not esteem. He loved her, if a passion which was entirely sensual merits that name.

He saw himself in the future bound to a new companion, full of coquetry and schemes, and endowed with an unendurable mother-in-law. He saw the luxury with which he would have to surround them, and the slavery to which he would be doomed. He shivered with dread at the very idea. Unhappily for him, it was now too late to draw back.

Mathilde looked for an outburst the next morning at breakfast; but none came. Henri was unusually reserved, almost timid; he looked at his watch often, and under pretext of important business soon left the house.

Mann came to dinner, and informed Segel of the happy result of his negotiations. At table the couple, already morally divorced, seemed ill at ease. Mathilde taciturn, Henri almost mute, let Mann and two other guests do the talking. At dessert came Samuel, who amused the company for some time with his witty sayings. On leaving the table he took his daughter by the hand to lead her to the garden. He insisted on her putting on her hat, saying the sun was yet warm; then he conducted her to the street, where a carriage awaited them.

"My dear child," said the father, "we will take a short ride. It will do you good, for the air is fresh and agreeable this evening." A half-hour after, the carriage stopped at the door of her father's house.

"Here," said he, embracing Mathilde, "is your home. You will not return to Segel's. I have had your old room prepared for you."

The gordian knot was thus severed with the greatest simplicity. The young woman saw no more of her former husband. Aided by the English governess, she occupied herself with household cares. With what secret satisfaction she renewed her former life! Her springtime revived. But she was at times a prey to deep anxiety, for Jacob had not written since his letter of farewell, and all traces of him were lost.

The revolution, contrary to all expectations, took on larger proportions daily.

Owing to the assumed names which the chiefs and soldiers of the insurrection bore, all steps to ascertain Jacob's whereabouts proved fruitless.

Mathilde was almost in despair, yet she seemed to hear a voice say to her:--

"God will give him back to you."

From that time she believed in God.

Each day she questioned her father, who, without giving her great hopes, encouraged her not to despair. Weeks and months passed. At last, early one morning, he entered her chamber, and, in spite of his endeavours to conceal his feelings, appeared much agitated.

"Prepare to leave to-day," said he. "Jacob is at Cracow, wounded, but not dangerously."

Mathilde gave a great cry, and fainted, but soon came to herself, and on the morrow was with her father at the bedside of her beloved.

EPILOGUE.

In the year eighteen hundred and sixty-five a numerous company were reunited at the Albergo della Grotta, where we will finish, as we have begun, our veracious history.

To-day the company assumed a more cheerful aspect than at the first meeting. It was composed only of persons whose appearance denoted wealth or competence. Here were no unfortunates who fainted from want, like poor Ivas, and on whose faces could be seen traces of misery and care.

In the privileged corner of the grotto, near the murmuring fountain, a sumptuous table was set for the most distinguished travellers. Instinctively Firpo, the host, gave their titles in advance to Monsieur le Comte and Madame la Comtesse. The choicest wines, the freshest fruits, and a tablecloth whose snowy whiteness was only excelled by the brilliancy of the polished silver knives, forks, and spoons, were for them. The other tables were already occupied by the guests, here singly, there in groups. All belonged to the class usually called aristocratic, who lead an easy and luxurious life.

The day was warm; the blue Italian sky shone in all its splendour. The sea sang its immortal symphony. The trees rustled harmoniously, the laurels exhaled their perfumes, the golden oranges contrasted with the dark green leaves, and the fresh sea-breeze sweetly refreshed the limpid air.

Alone at a table a man was seated. He was the same who, some years before, travelled this way in company with the sprightly dancer, Gigante. But he was no longer in joyous humour. He was Henri Segel; but how changed!

Equally isolated and bored we find our Tsigane, Stamlo Gako, whom the reader has not forgotten. He is more yellow and blacker than ever, and he has grown stout, heavy, and somnolent.

There is another solitary traveller. It is Gromof, who is not now accompanied by the charming Lucie Coloni. He carries his head high, as if to brave destiny. But his irritation betrays itself in every movement. He amuses himself by making little balls of bread crumbs, and throws out of the window the fruit that he has scarcely tasted.

These three do not converse. The Russian and the gypsy have met before, as we have seen, but they do not care to renew the acquaintance. As for Segel, he has never spoken with either Gromof or Gako.

A sumptuous equipage entered the court of the inn. The host and the servants hastened to meet it. A lady filled the whole interior of the vehicle with her white robe, and one scarcely perceived in one corner hidden under the immense crinoline, which was then so fashionable, a little, thin, withered-looking man.

They were no doubt husband and wife. She was in all the splendour of her youth, charming, elegant, confident of her beauty, proud and victorious. He, as one soon perceived, was the most humble servant of her who bore his name and disposed of his fortune.

He jumped out of the carriage, and with all the manner and gallantry of a young man, despite his fifty and odd years, presented his hand to his queen to aid her to descend. She raised herself with indifference, and gathered together the train of her rustling robe.

At sight of this beauty, whom he immediately recognized through the window near which he dined, Henri rose as if he wished to avoid a disagreeable meeting, but a retreat was impossible. To go out he must necessarily pass them. He made an ironical grimace and reseated himself.

The reader has recognized Muse, now actually Baroness Von Kreig, the wife of a wealthy speculator, whose nationality was a mystery to all, for he carefully concealed his Jewish origin. He did not give himself out as a Pole, although living in Poland, but passed sometimes for a Russian, oftener for a German. Where and how did he steal the title of baron? No one knew. It might have been, said some, the recompense of a great financial operation. He wore on his travelling coat several ribbons and decorations.

The reader doubtless expected to hear of the marriage of Muse and Henri, who were supposed to be so much attached to each other; but in consequence of the fickleness and calculation of the lady, the marriage had not come to pass. Henri, for her sake, had divorced his wife, had proposed, been accepted, and passed for her future husband everywhere. Muse introduced him to all her friends, and he was proud of his betrothed. It was then that the Baron Von Kreig met the enchantress on the street. He had known the mother of old, but avoided her because she had the bad habit of borrowing money which she always forgot to return. The baron had just lost his second wife, and he required for his third, above all, good health. He was struck with the blooming beauty of Muse, and fell in love at first sight. The next day he went to pay her a visit. Muse immediately coolly sat down, when she was alone, and compared him with Henri. Von Kreig was ten times richer, a baron, and could introduce her into the most brilliant circles of society. He was well educated, and, although old and dried up, was an excellent match. Muse put forth all her powers of fascination, and soon succeeded in bringing the baron to her feet. The marriage with Henri was delayed under pretext that the lace had not arrived from Paris. In the meanwhile the baron gained over the mother by consenting without demur to the most advantageous settlements for the daughter, imposed by Madame Wtorkowska. The engagement was accomplished quietly. Then there remained the rather unpleasant task of breaking with Henri, who believed himself master of the situation, and laughed at the attentions of the baron.

It puzzled even the genius of these two women to find a plausible or decent excuse for the rupture. In the intervals of his life, as a betrothed between the acts, as it were, Segel sought distraction at the theatre. He was tied to the gauzy apron-strings of a sylph, or, in plain words, a danseuse. This connection had lasted for more than two years, and the evenings away from Muse were passed with the beautiful danseuse. He made no secret of it, and his carriage was often seen at the door of the ballet-girl's dwelling. It was with this, as a pretext, that Madame Wtorkowska sought to break the engagement. In vain Segel asked for pardon. He was dismissed, and received back the ring he had given Muse. For this engagement ring he had paid ten thousand francs, in Paris. It was a superb solitaire surrounded with smaller diamonds, each half a carat in weight. It was shown, as if by accident, to the baron; he felt the sacrifice, and with noble emulation Von Kreig replaced it by another which cost thirty thousand francs.

Segel stormed, but the baron solemnly conducted Muse to the altar. The newly married couple started on a wedding trip, which was to be the grand tour of Europe, including all the large cities, baths, and fashionable resorts.

The blackest ingratitude awaited Madame Wtorkowska. Her son-in-law paid her debts, and settled on her a beggarly pension; then took his leave courteously, and forbade more than rare communications with her daughter. The poor woman, who had calculated on managing everything, travelling with them, and spending money lavishly, prayed, begged, and threatened. The baron was inexorable, and replied by silence only. The daughter sacrificed her mother with Roman stoicism, playing the part of a humble and obedient wife.

Madame was at first disheartened and fell ill; then, as one must live, she rented an apartment in the faubourg, and, to augment her income, set up an ÉcartÉ, taking care always to have around her many pleasing young women to add to the attractions of the place. The house soon became well known, although no one cared to avow openly that they visited it. Sofronof, Bavorof, and others remained faithful to the unfortunate.

As may be supposed, this meeting between Muse and Henri at the inn was equally distasteful to both. The moment the baroness entered the grotto her eyes fell on her old lover. Notwithstanding her usual presence of mind, she was confused. More master of the situation, Segel saluted her respectfully, and smiled bitterly.

At the same time there arrived another couple. They were quietly dressed, yet with a certain distinction which is not always, as some think, an exclusive possession of birth. They were the distinguished guests expected by the host, Jacob and Mathilde. They came in, thinking themselves unknown. The husband was relating his first visit to this fairy grotto; the wife replied laughing. The sound of her voice came to Henri's ears; he believed it at first a hallucination; he listened attentively, and could not doubt the reality of his first impression.

There seemed to him a strange fatality in this simultaneous meeting of the two persons, one of whom recalled his lost peace, the other his vanished hopes. He could not see Mathilde, and the sound of her well-known voice seemed to descend from the clouds. Curious to know if it were she, he went to the end of the grotto, where, in an isolated corner, Jacob dined with her. She seemed rejuvenated, and her face shone with happiness. Her husband kissed her hands, believing himself unobserved.

Segel experienced a feeling of wrath; his lips curled under a sardonic smile.

"All happy!" said he. "And I"--

Then he returned to his place. The silvery voice of Madame Jacob attracted the attention of the baroness also, and she, likewise, drew near under pretext of examining the grotto. She gave a cry of surprise. The couple turned and recognized Muse, who tenderly greeted the old friend whom she had so often wished dead.

"Ah, my dear Mathilde," cried she, "what a happy and unexpected meeting!"

Truly it was a romantic encounter, rarely met with in real life. Chance, however, often plays us tricks altogether unforeseen.

Mathilde did not share the apparent joy of Muse, for whom she had no great affection. But their acquaintance dated back to the time when they both wore short dresses, and the remembrances of childhood are always pleasant.

The proprieties required observance, and Jacob had his table carried to the grand salon, where their friends were dining; he certainly did not expect to see Henri Segel, and Mathilde saw him first. She drew back, for all her involuntary unhappy experience with Henri appeared before her. Her husband, although much annoyed, encouraged her to shake off her distress.

Segel understood that his presence was disagreeable to all; therefore it pleased him to impose it. It delighted him to see all countenances grow pale and abstracted at sight of him. He affected a cynical gayety, drank a glass of wine, lighted a cigar, then turned toward Jacob and Mathilde.

With well-simulated indifference Muse watched the meeting. Her husband, playing the young man, had risen quickly and received his wife's friends with much courtesy. He was very polite to Jacob, and entirely ignored the revolutionary rÔle that he had played.

Von Kreig detested Henri, but he deemed it proper for a baron to disguise his sentiments, and he was very courteous to his vanquished rival. The scene was highly dramatic. There was no outward appearance of excitement, however, for men of the world do not show their feelings in public.

Gromof, roused from his meditations, looked around and perceived Jacob.

"How strange," said he, "to meet you again at Sestri."

"Yes," replied the latter, "a real accident. I am the same as ever, you see, but not so gay as then."

The baron asked in a low voice:--

"Who is this person?"

"A Russian," replied Jacob.

Von Kreig, taking Gromof for a prominent official of the imperial court, was going to ask for an introduction, when Jacob whispered in his ear:--

"An outlaw."

The baron drew back and, as he was a strict conservative, thought:--

"What kind of company have we fallen in with, anyway?" Then he said to Jacob:--

"Madame and yourself are travelling for pleasure, are you not?"

"We are obliged to leave Poland," replied Jacob. "I joined the revolutionists, was wounded and was taken to Austria, whence orders came for me to leave the country. My wife and I seek a retreat where we may dwell peacefully. It is not so easy to find. Nowhere in Europe, except in Switzerland or England, is there much security for exiles. In Saxony they are given leave to remain only temporarily. In Bavaria they are not given leave to remain at all. In France an arbitrary expulsion, authorized by the law, always like the sword of Damocles, is suspended over their heads; and in Belgium they are also unwelcome."

"But I think, monsieur, that you can better your position. The Russian government is magnanimous; it has proclaimed a general amnesty."

"Yes, I could have obtained that amnesty by solicitation. Unfortunately the pardon granted to-day does not always do for to-morrow. In Russia the despotism of caprice is the only law."

Von Kreig frowned.

"The state of siege exists now," said he, "but will not last always."

"To ask permission to return is to avow a fault," said Jacob, "and to return to Poland now would be to act against my conscience."

The baron knew not how to reply. Gromof relieved him of this embarrassment by joining in the conversation.

"I told you," said he to Jacob, "what would be the result of your insurrection."

"Yes, but it could not be avoided. It was written that Poland should be bathed in blood. It was a trial or a chastisement of Providence; it is not for me to say which."

"You still believe in Providence? What an incorrigible child! All Europe suffers from your folly. You have revealed to the world the weakness of England, the nullity of the imperial government of Napoleon III., and the abasement of the moral level of all society. Formerly other countries at least sympathized with nations that were so oppressed, and looked with disfavour upon the cruel tyrants who caused such suffering. Under Louis Philippe France did nothing for Poland, but the two chambers at least protested against her being utterly crushed. To-day policy reigns, and they bow before superior force. Formerly many hearts beat at the words 'liberty' and 'fraternity.' To-day these words provoke only a smile. Lord Byron, when he risked his life for the independence of Greece, passed for a Don Quixote. And the country of these heroes has legislators who pretend that humanity is not a family, that there is no union among the people. Every one for himself! Every one for himself! Behold a summary of the actual moral situation! Neither you nor I will ever see the sun of liberty!"

Von Kreig, terrified, whispered in his wife's ear:--

"This Russian is a red revolutionist."

Henri interposed. He changed the subject of the conversation, and from Poland passed to the Jews. Segel maintained that the Israelites ought to profit by the situation of things, without caring what became of Poland. Jacob held to his opinion that it was better to be with the oppressed against the oppressors. Segel, laughing heartily, replied:--

"This is romantic, poetic, heroic, magnificent; but it is not practical."

"Whatever you may think," replied Jacob, "it is our duty to convince the Christians that our morals are not inferior to theirs, that love of one's neighbour is taught in our books as in their Gospels, and that between the Mosaic law and the Christian law there is accord and not contradiction."

"Words, empty words," said Henri, "nothing but words! Material interest should be the motive of nations as well as individuals. Liberty, equality, fraternity are a triple aberration of mind! Behold their result: fields strewn with dead men and bones!"

"Yes; but the dead will rise, the bones will be reanimated as in the vision of Ezekiel."

Jacob commenced to recite the passage, then, remarking that no one listened to him, turned gayly to his wife and asked:--

"Is not Italy beautiful?"

"It never seemed so lovely before," replied Mathilde tenderly.

"And what do you think of it, madame?" asked he of the baroness.

"Bah!" replied she. "I suppose one must conform to the fashion and admire Italy. It is a picturesque country; but, all things considered, this land filled with tombs and ruins has nothing agreeable for me. Prosaic as it is, I prefer Paris."

"Now, I do not like Paris," said Jacob.

"Is it permitted not to like Paris?" cried Von Kreig. "You are joking, monsieur."

"Not at all. The same places do not suit all characters or all dispositions. To dreamy and poetic temperaments I recommend Italy; Germany, to those who are positive and prosaic; England, to men of enterprise and activity; and Paris, to high livers, and to ladies who love the excitements and gayeties of society."

"And Poland?" asked Henri.

"To those who thirst for martyrdom," replied Jacob sadly.

"But now-a-days every one laughs at these Polish theories of suffering and of sacrifice!"

"Oh, dear and charming Paris!" cried the baroness.

"One vegetates elsewhere, one lives only in Paris," added her husband, "and perhaps a little in London."

"Do not compare London with its fogs to my dear Paris," replied his wife.

In the midst of this desultory chatting Henri remained obstinately near, until the veturino which he had ordered was announced. He could not deny himself the bitter pleasure of seeing side by side her who had been his wife, and her who was to have been. He seemed unable to leave the place.

Meanwhile the dinner drew to a close. The dessert was brought in, consisting of figs, spoiled pears, green grapes, and musty peaches.

"No comparison is possible," said the baron, "between these wretched fruits and the delicious fruits we get at Paris."

"These are horrible!" added his wife, biting into the bad part of a peach. Then she turned to Mathilde and asked her if she should return to Genoa.

"Yes; but not until evening," she replied.

"Well, we must make haste, for we are going to the theatre," said Muse.

They all arose from the table. The baron offered cigars to Jacob and Henri Segel, but he hastened to quit their society. One appeared to be compromising, the other altogether odious.

Gromof and the Tsigane chatted together. Muse drew Mathilde into an obscure corner of the grotto to ask her this question:--

"Are you happy?"

"Above all expression," replied she. "I have only one sorrow,--to see our native land in such an unhappy condition."

"And Jacob?"

"He is the best of men; he is my ideal."

"What do you think of that horrid Henri?"

"I had to summon all my courage when he looked at me so fixedly, a cold sweat came on my forehead. He is capable of killing both of us."

"No! He is not susceptible of so violent an emotion. We ought to pardon him, for he suffers keenly."

"Oh, no! I know better than that. He will easily console himself."

The baron was impatient to depart, and coughed to bring back his wife from the grotto. At last the two friends separated, saying farewell, and Muse bowed to Henri from the distance, with a grave dignity. The brilliant star entered her carriage and disappeared in a cloud of dust on the highway. Jacob conducted his wife to her room in the inn and descended to the grotto.

Gromof and the Tsigane came to talk with him. The Russian saw the future outlook dark and gloomy. Jacob was rather optimistic.

"Man," said he, "ought never to abandon himself to despair. If he object to his own individual lot, it is narrow-minded and weak. If he complain of the lot of humanity, it is blindness or error. In the annals of the world human events are submitted to a normal development, an intelligent fatality which is not arrested by the stupidity and malevolence of men. The law of destiny, whatever we may do, will prevail. Patience, and the storm will disappear."

"And we,--we cannot expect to live to see the sun appear!"

"Our children will see it, perhaps. In the collective existence of humanity there is a cohesion of facts which do not exist in the same individual existences. Individuals are only the stones of a vast edifice."

"You are a happy man from all points of view," declared Henri. "You have faith in the aim of life, you possess serenity of soul; nothing is lacking."

"And you? Can you not acquire the same happiness?"

"No. I have squeezed life like a lemon. There remains to me only the bitter peel. I exist aimlessly; I believe in nothing; everything seems to me senseless or ridiculous. It is the malady of the age. Your dreams are worth more than the reality."

"They are not dreams. For me it is the living reality. Your materialism is what is false. You will soon return to Poland; there is much to do there. Do your duty there, and life will have a new meaning for you."

Henri laughed ironically and said:--

"In the meanwhile I have another work on hand. I am going to attach myself to Muse. I shall follow her everywhere. She will see continuously my mocking face. I will be the skeleton at the feast, and I will enjoy this revenge to satiety. Every one to his taste! I really believe that Satan cradled me, and that this nurse has injected into my blood some of his own character."

He gave an infernal laugh, took his hat, and left them, saying:--

"I will join Muse at the theatre."

THE END.