“Decidedly my dear friend, Count Larinski is a delightful man, and I never will pardon myself for having judged ill of him. The day before yesterday I did not know the extent of his merit and of his virtues. His beautiful soul is like a country where one passes from one pleasing discovery to another, and at each step a new scene is revealed. Between ourselves, Antoinette is a dreamer: where has she got the idea that this man is in love with her? These Counts Larinski have artists’ enthusiasm, tender and sensitive hearts, and poetic imaginations; they love everything, and they love nothing; they admire a pretty woman as they admire a beautiful flower, a humming-bird, a picture of Titian’s. Did I tell you that the other day, as I was showing him through my park, he almost fainted before my purple beech--which assuredly is a marvel? He was in ecstasy; I truly believe there were tears in his eyes. I might have supposed he was in love with my beech; yet he has not asked my permission to marry it. “Moreover, if he were up to his eyes in love with your daughter, have no fear; he will not marry her, and this is the reason--Wait a little, I must go further back. “Abbe Miollens came to see me yesterday afternoon; he was distressed that M. Larinski had not approved of his proposition. “‘The evil is not so great,’ I said; ‘let him go back to Vienna, where all his acquaintances are; he will be happier there.’ “‘The evil that I see in it,’ he replied, ‘is that he will be lost to us forever. Vienna is so far away! Professor in London, only ten hours’ journey from Paris, he could cross the Channel sometimes, and we could have our music together.’ “You can understand that this reasoning did not touch me in the least; whatever it cost me I will bear it, and resign myself to lose M. Larinski forever; but the abbe is obstinate. “‘I fear,’ he said, ‘that the Austrians pay their archivists badly; the English manage matters better, and Lord C--- gave me _carte blanche_.’ “‘Oh! but that,’ rejoined I, ‘is a delicate point to touch. As soon as you approach the bread-and-butter question, our man assumes a rigid, formal manner, as if an attack had been made on his dignity.’ “‘I truly believe,’ he replied, ‘that there is a fundamental basis of incomparable nobility of sentiment in his character; he is not proud, he is pride itself.’ “The abbe is passionately fond of Horace; he assets that it is to this great poet that he owes that profound knowledge of men for which he is distinguished. He quoted a Latin verse that he was kind enough to translate for me, and that signified something equivalent to the statement that certain horses rear and kick when you touch the sensitive spot. ‘That is like the Poles,’ he said.