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Updated: June 13, 2025
In speaking thus, she took off her hat and mantilla, seated herself in the embrasure of a window, and opened a book which she began to read with great attention. "God be praised! she does not love him," thought Mlle. Moiseney, who was not aware that Mlle. Moriaz was turning two or three pages at a time with perceiving it.
The road lies between a wall of rocks and a precipice of nearly two hundred metres, at the bottom of which rush the swift waters of the Albula. This wild scenery deeply moved Mlle. Moriaz; she never had seen anything like it at Cormeilles or anywhere about Paris.
He admired the bouquet; but, although Antoinette regarded him fixedly, she detected neither blush nor confusion on his face. "It was not he," she said to herself. There was a piano in the room where they had dined. As Count Abel was taking leave, Mlle. Moiseney begged him to give Mlle. Moriaz proof of his talent.
All depended on what point of view was taken, and she changed hers every hour. Since his mishap, M. Moriaz had become less rash than formerly. Experience had taught him that there are treacherous rocks that can be climbed without much difficulty, but from which it is impossible to descend rocks exposing one to the danger of ending one's days in their midst, if there is no Pole near at hand.
He was seeking in his mind for a beginning for his first phrase. He had just found it, when suddenly Antoinette said to him, in a low, agitated, but distinct voice: "I have a question for you. What would you think if I should some day marry M. Abel Larinski?" M. Moriaz started up, and his cane, slipping from his hand, rolled to the bottom of the declivity.
Under a lock of hair was written, in Hebrew characters, on their brow, the word "Truth." If they chanced to lie, the word was obliterated; they lost all their charm, the clay was no longer anything but clay. Mlle. Moriaz divined Samuel Brohl's thought; she exclaimed: "The man I loved was he whose history you related to me."
I will add that it is signed. Ah! monsieur, Mlle. Moriaz will be charmed to see these scrawls again. Under what obligations she will be to you! You will make the most of it; you will tell her that you wrested them from me, your dagger at my throat that you terrified me. With what a gracious smile she will reward your heroism!
During the drive, M. Moriaz gave himself up to the most melancholy reflections; he even tormented himself with sundry reproaches. "We have acted contrary to good sense," he thought. "Her imagination has been taken by storm; in time it would have calmed down. We should have left her to herself, to her natural defence her own good judgment, for she has a large stock of it.
"Here, monsieur," she replied; "but M. Moriaz is absent; he will not return for a month. If you come from a distance, monsieur," she added, graciously, "perhaps you would like to rest awhile on the terrace. The view is beautiful." This hospitable reception seemed a good omen, for, sensible as he was, he believed in presentiments and prognostics. He entered without waiting to be urged.
Moriaz did not swoon. She flushed crimson, then grew very pale; but she remained standing, her head proudly erect, and she said, in a tone of well-feigned indifference: "Oh! M. Larinski is married? My very sincere compliments to the Countess Larinski." After which she busied herself arranging in a vase the heather and ferns she had brought back with her. Mlle.
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