"I must prohibit--understand me clearly--your disposing of the trinket I
left with you; we have the weakness, we Poles, of clinging to our family
relics. Set your mind at rest; before the end of the month I shall have
returned to Vienna, and will honour the dear little note. One day you
will go down on your knees to beg of me to loan you a thousand florins,
and I will astonish you with my ingratitude. May the God of Abraham, of
Isaac, and of Jacob, have you in his holy keeping, my dear Guldenthal!"

As he finished his letter, he heard the sound of harps and violins. Some
itinerant musicians were giving a concert in the hotel-garden, which
was lit up as bright as day. Abel opened his window, and leaned on his
elbows, looking out. The first object that presented itself to his eyes
was Mlle. Moriaz, promenading one of the long garden-walks, leaning on
her father's arm. Many eyes were fixed on her--we have already said it
was difficult not to gaze upon her--but no one contemplated her with
such close attention as Count Larinski. He never once lost sight of her.

"Is she beautiful? Is she even pretty?" he queried within himself. "I
cannot quite make up my mind, but I am very sure that she is charming.
Like my bracelet, this is a fancy article. She is a little thin, and her
shoulders are too vigorously fashioned for her waist, which is slender
and supple as a reed; but, such as she is, she has not her equal. Her
walk, her carriage, resemble nothing I ever have seen before. I can well
imagine that when she appears in the streets of Paris people turn to
look after her, but no one would have the audacity to follow her. How
old is she? Twenty-four or twenty-five years, I should say. Why is she
not married? Who is this withered, pinched-looking fright of a personage
who trots at her side like a poodle-dog? Probably some _demoiselle de
compagnie_. And there comes her _femme de chambre_, a very spruce little