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And she handed him a medallion containing her portrait; then she moved towards the door. On the threshold she turned. "Please tell Mlle. Galet," said she, "that I respect her nap, and will return to-morrow. Mlle. Moiseney awaits me, and must be growing impatient. I have your word of honour? Adieu, then, until this evening. I must hasten away." And she did hasten, or, rather, she flew away.
The dinner was only passably lively. Mlle. Moiseney owed M. Langis a grudge; she could not forgive him for having made fun of her more than once in her eyes an unpardonable sin. M. Moriaz was enchanted to find himself once more in company with his dear Camille; but he kept asking himself, mournfully, "Why is not he to be my son-in-law?"
Has M. Langis forgotten that you thought him too young only twenty-three?" "He has so little forgotten it that he has managed, I don't know how, to be at present twenty-five. How resist such a mark of affection? I shall be compelled to marry him." "That will never do. People do not marry for charity," replied Mlle. Moiseney, deprecatingly. "Adieu, my dear," said Antoinette, dismissing her.
The Moor recounted his life, his sufferings, his adventures, and Desdemona wept. The fathers question, the heroes or adventurers recount, and the daughters weep. Such are the outlines of a history as old as the world. Abel Larinski had left the card-table. He had taken his seat in an arm-chair, facing Mlle. Moiseney. He was questioned; he replied. His destiny had been neither light nor easy.
"Do not dream too much about your unknown charmer. I assure you he had a decided stoop in his shoulders. However, that makes small difference; if your heart speaks, I will see to arranging this affair for you." And she added, musingly, "How amusing it must be to marry other people!" The next morning Mlle. Moiseney made the acquaintance of her unknown charmer. Before leaving Bergun Mlle.
Moiseney, who kept constantly recurring to the incident whose mystery she burned to fathom. The good demoiselle had been tempted to stop people in the road to ask, "Was it you?" Perchance she might have suspected her Bergun unknown to have a hand in the affair, had she had the least idea that he was at Saint Moritz, where she never had met him.
It seemed to me, so far as I noticed, that he was inclined to stoop, and that his head was very badly poised." "What do you say?" cried Mlle. Moiseney, greatly scandalized. "How came you to think his head badly poised?" "There there! Don't let us quarrel about it; I am ready to retract. Good-night, mademoiselle. Apropos, did you know that M. Camille Langis had returned to Paris?"
Moiseney went to meet her, her face mournful, her head bent down, her glance tearful. "Why! what is the matter, my dear Joan?" she said; "you look like a funeral." "Alas!" sighed Mlle. Moiseney, "I have sad news to communicate." "What! have they written to you from Cormeilles that your parrot is dead?" "Ah, my dear child, be reasonable, be strong; summon up all your courage."
In reading the fourth letter of Mme. de Lorcy, M. Moriaz experienced a feeling of satisfaction and deliverance, over which he was not master. His daughter had gone to pay a visit in the neighbourhood, and he was alone with Mlle. Moiseney, who said to him, "You have received good news, monsieur?"
"How pale you are!" he said to her. "Are you not well? You are cold. Pray, Mlle. Moiseney, make yourself useful and prepare her a mulled egg; you know I do not permit her to be sick." It was not the mulled egg that restored Mlle. Moriaz's color. The next morning as she was giving a drawing lesson to her protegee, Count Abel was announced.
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