This narration, exact and precise, bore the impress of truth. Count Abel made it in a simple, modest tone, keeping himself as much as possible in the background, and growing persuasive without apparent effort. There were moments when his face would flame up with enthusiasm, when his voice would become husky and broken, when he would seek for a word, become impatient because he could not find it, find it at last, and this effort added to the energy of his spasmodic and disjointed eloquence. In conclusion, he said: “In his youth man believes himself born to roll; the day comes when he experiences the necessity of being seated. I am seated; my seat is a little hard, but when I am tempted to murmur, I think of my mother and refrain.” “What did you do in Roumania?” inquired M. Moriaz, who liked to have stories circumstantially detailed. “Ah! I beg of you to excuse me from recounting to you the worst employed years of my life. I am my father’s own son. He dreamed of cutting through an isthmus, I of inventing a gun. I spent four years of my life in fabricating it, and the first time it was used it burst.” And thereupon he plunged into a somewhat humorous description of his invention, his hopes, his golden dreams, his disappointments, and his chagrin. “The only admirable thing in the whole affair,” he concluded, “and something that I believe never has happened to any other inventor, is that I am cured entirely of my chimera; I defy it to take possession of me again. I propose to put myself under discipline in order to expiate my extravagance. So soon as my cure is entirely finished I will set out for Paris, where I will do penance.” “What kind of penance?” asked M. Moriaz. “Paris is not a hermitage.” “Nor is it my intention to live there as a hermit,” was the reply, given with perfect simplicity. “I go to give lessons in music and in the languages.” “Indeed!” exclaimed M. Moriaz. “Do you see no other career open to you, my dear count?” “I am no longer a count,” he replied, with an heroic smile. “Counts do not run about giving private lessons.” And a strange light flashed in his eyes as he spoke. “I shall run about giving private lessons until I hear anew the voice that spoke to me in California. It will find me ever ready; my reply will be: ‘I belong to thee; dispose of me at thy pleasure.’ Ah! this chimera is one that I never will renounce!” Then suddenly he started as one just awakening from a dream; he drew his hand over his brow, looked confusedly around him, and said: “_Grand Dieu!_ here I have been talking to you of myself for two hours! It is the most stupid way of passing one’s time, and I promise you it shall not happen again.” With these words he rose, took up his hat, and left.