which this exposed him was the temptation of cutting short a difficult
explanation in his lessons by a single word, which would have made the
whole matter clear. But this, although the most frequent and
vexatious, was not the severest trial of his _incognito_. One day,
while giving a lesson to two beautiful Polish girls, daughters of a
lady who had shown him great kindness, the conversation turned upon
Poland: he spoke with an indifference which roused the younger to a
vehement outburst on behalf of her country. The elder interrupted her
sharply in their native language with, "How can you speak of holy
things to a hare-brained Frenchman?" At another Polish house, a
visitor, hearing that M. Catharo was from Paris, was eager to ask news
of his brother, who was living there in exile: their host dissuaded
him, saying, "You know that inquiries about relations in exile are
strictly forbidden. Take care! one is never safe with a stranger."
Their unfortunate fellow-countryman, who knew the visitor's brother
very well, was forced to bend over a book to hide the blood which
rushed to his face in the conflict of feeling. He kept so close a
guard upon himself that he would never sleep in the room with another
person--which it was sometimes difficult to avoid on visits to
neighboring country-seats--lest a word spoken in his troubled slumbers
should betray him. He passed nine months in familiar relations with
all the principal people of the place, his nationality and his designs
being known to but very few of his countrymen, who kept the secret
with rigid fidelity. At length, however, he became aware that he was
watched; the manner of some of his Russian friends grew inquiring and
constrained; he received private warnings, and perceived that he was
dogged by the police. It was not too late for flight, but he knew that
such a course would involve all who were in his secret, and perhaps
thousands of others, in tribulation, and that for their sakes it
behooved him to await the terrible day of reckoning which was