however, entirely erroneous, and the novelist commented upon it in his
passion, although in another form, by repeating to himself, as he went
along the Rue Sistina: "No, no, I can not interfere in that affair, and I
shall tell him so firmly."

He examined again the note, the perusal of which had rendered him more
uneasy than he had been twice before that morning. He had not been
mistaken in recognizing on the envelope the handwriting of Boleslas
Gorka, and these were the terms, teeming with mystery under the
circumstances, in which the brief message was worded:

"I know you to be such a friend to me, dear Julien, and I have for your
character, so chivalrous and so French, such esteem that I have
determined to turn to you in an era of my life thoroughly tragical.
I wish to see you immediately. I shall await you at your lodging.
I have sent a similar note to the Cercle de la Chasse, another to the
bookshop on the Corso, another to your antiquary's. Wheresoever my
appeal finds you, leave all and come at once. You will save more for me
than life. For a reason which I will tell you, my return is a profound
secret. No one, you understand, knows of it but you. I need not write
more to a friend as sincere as you are, and whom I embrace with all my
heart."

"It is unequalled.!" said Dorsenne, crumpling the letter with rising
anger. "He embraces me with all his heart. I am his most sincere
friend! I am chivalrous, French, the only person he esteems! What
disagreeable commission does he wish me to undertake for him? Into what
scrape is he about to ask me to enter, if he has not already got me into
it? I know that school of protestation. We are allied for life and
death, are we not? Do me a favor! And they upset your habits, encroach