put a 'P'* on the bills, and I shall live comfortably in Italy for the
rest of my days as the Conte Ferraro. [*Protested.] I was alone with
him when he died, poor fellow, in the marsh of Zembin, and I shall
slip into his skin. . . . _Mille diables_! the woman who is to follow
after me might give them a clue! Think of an old campaigner like me
infatuated enough to tie myself to a petticoat tail! . . . Why take
her? I must leave her behind. Yes, I could make up my mind to it;
but--I know myself--I should be ass enough to go back to her. Still,
nobody knows Aquilina. Shall I take her or leave her?"

"You will not take her!" cried a voice that filled Castanier with
sickening dread. He turned sharply, and saw the Englishman.

"The devil is in it!" cried the cashier aloud.

Melmoth had passed his victim by this time; and if Castanier's first
impulse had been to fasten a quarrel on a man who read his own
thoughts, he was so much torn up by opposing feelings that the
immediate result was a temporary paralysis. When he resumed his walk
he fell once more into that fever of irresolution which besets those
who are so carried away by passion that they are ready to commit a
crime, but have not sufficient strength of character to keep it to
themselves without suffering terribly in the process. So, although
Castanier had made up his mind to reap the fruits of a crime which was
already half executed, he hesitated to carry out his designs. For him,
as for many men of mixed character in whom weakness and strength are
equally blended, the least trifling consideration determines whether
they shall continue to lead blameless lives or become actively
criminal. In the vast masses of men enrolled in Napoleon's armies
there are many who, like Castanier, possessed the purely physical