He went down into the garden, walked past beds of rose-trees, and halted by the banks of the river, watching in the crystal waters a jack chasing a shoal of roaches, which, to escape the dreaded pursuit, leapt out of the water, like silver arrows. The clock at the entrance, as it struck, disturbed his thoughts, and he saw approaching him, and preceded by the porter, a tall, elegantly dressed young man, of very handsome features and blue eyes. As he drew near he took off his hat, bowed with considerable deference, and said, in a sing-song Italian accent— “Have I the pleasure of addressing M. Marcel Baradier?” “That is my name, sir,” said Marcel, examining the stranger with a sudden interest. “To what do I owe the honour of this visit!” The young man gave a sidelong glance to assure himself that the porter had left the room, then, in haughty tones, said— “As I have no one to present me, allow me to introduce myself. I am Count Cesare Agostini, of the Princes of Briviesca. I live at the Villa de la Cavée with my sister, and I have called to thank you for the kindness with which, yesterday, you—” “What I did, sir, was merely natural; it was quite by chance that I met your sister. She is a stranger in these parts, and appeared to be sad, and in search of rest and quiet. All I did was to simply comply with her wishes so far as I could.” Count Cesare bowed gracefully; a cloud came over his handsome face, and in accents of sadness he continued— “My sister is, indeed, very sad; she has had a great deal of trouble. She has spent her strength in attending to the needs of a husband far older than herself, and whom she had the misfortune to lose some time ago. With the object of regaining her health, she has come into this valley, to seek calm and quiet. The waters of Ars, too, have been well recommended to us. But it is chiefly fresh air my sister needs, after being confined for long months by the bedside of a dying man.” The handsome Italian several times shook his head, and said— “Oh, it is very sad, very sad indeed!” “And you have come from Italy with your sister?” asked Marcel. “No,” said Cesare. “Madame Vignola was living in Paris, where I have recently been to see her. We intend to return to Naples, and settle down. Not before autumn, however. Yes, it is very sad indeed!” Marcel saw that the Count Cesare did not appear to wish to take his leave, and, as he was interested in what he related, he led the way to a green arbour, with rustic seats, sheltered from the rays of the setting sun. “Will you take a seat, sir?” The Italian chose an armchair, and drew from his pocket a gold cigarette-case, which he held out to Marcel. “A cigarette?” “Willingly.” They began to smoke, and the tobacco seemed to render Cesare even more loquacious. “This villa where my sister now lives is far from the village. Is the country round here quite safe?” “Perfectly safe. Your sister will have nothing to fear from any one.”