"Here, monsieur," she replied; "but M.Moriaz is absent; he will not return for a month.If you come from a distance, monsieur," she added, graciously, "perhaps you would like to rest awhile on the terrace.The view is beautiful."This hospitable reception seemed a good omen, for, sensible as he was, he believed in presentiments and prognostics.He entered without waiting to be urged.When he had crossed the lawn he stood facing two detached buildings, separated by a mass of verdure: to the right, an old summer-house, used from time immemorial for M.Moriaz's collections, laboratory, and library; to the left, a new two-story house, part stone, part brick, built in an elegant but unobtrusive style, without ornament or pretension, and flanked by a turret covered with ivy and clematis, which served for a dove-cote.The house was not a palace, but there was an air about it of well-being, comfort, and happiness.In looking at it you felt like saying, "The inmates here ought to be happy!" This was about what Count Abel said to himself; in fact, he could hardly refrain from exclaiming, "Dieu! how happy Ishall be here!" The situation, the terrace, the garden, everything pleased him infinitely.It seemed to him that the air here was fresher, more delightful than elsewhere, that it was exhilarating in the extreme; it seemed to him that the grass on the lawn was greener than any grass he ever had seen before, that the flowers in the carefully tended borders exhaled an unusually delicious perfume.He espied an open window on the ground-floor.He drew near it; the room into which he gazed, full of /bric-a-brac/ of exquisite choice, was Mlle.Moriaz's study.There was in the appearance of this little sanctuary, hung with white silken drapery, and as elegant as the divinity whose favourite tarrying-place it was, something of purity, chastity, and maidenliness.It opened its windows to the fresh breezes and to the perfume of the flowers; but it seemed as if nothing could penetrate there that was coarse or suspicious; that the entrance was forbidden to all doubtful or malignant beings who might have a secret crime to hide, to all pilgrims through life who had travelled its highways and had brought hence dust and mud on the soles of their shoes.Strange to say, Count Abel experienced an attack of timidity and embarrassment.He felt that he was indiscreet; he averted his eyes and went away.
This impression was soon dispelled.He regained his assurance, and walked around the terrace twice, treading the gravel with the step of a conqueror, making it feel the full weight of his foot.He finally seated himself on a bench; he had the nonchalant attitude of a man who is at home.Five or six doves were billing and cooing on the ledge of the roof; he could readily understand that they were talking of him, and that they were saying, "Here he is--we have been waiting for him."A beautiful Angora cat, white as snow, with delicate nose and silky hair, came, arching her back and waving her bushy tail, from out a grove, and advanced towards him.She examined him curiously an instant, rubbed herself against the bench, and then sat coquettishly at the feet of the intruder.He caressed her, saying: "You are as white and graceful as your mistress; you are an intelligent animal;you understand, my dear, that I come from her.Shall I tell you a secret? She loves Count Abel Larinski."With these words he rose and left, after thanking the portress, who would have been extremely astonished had she been aware of the reflections that had just been occupying his mind.He went a short distance on the highway, then finding, to the right, a road that led to Cormeilles, he took it, but soon struck into a path that wound through the woods.He was sorry to leave a spot that spoke vividly to his heart, and even more so to his imagination.He seated himself on the turf, in the midst of a grove of oaks; around him stretched a blooming heath.Through an opening in the grove, he could see Saint-Germain, its forests, and the Seine glittering in the sunshine, with the two bridges of Maisons Lafitte spanning it with their arches.
Through another opening he caught a glimpse, to his left, of the proud bastions of Mont-Valerien, and, in the distance, Paris, the Arc de l'Etoile, the gilt dome of the Invalides, and the smoke of the factories rising slowly in the air, then by turns remaining stiff and motionless, or being swept away by the wind.
The place was retired, solitary, very still.No sound was to be heard save the singing of a lark, and at intervals the melancholy cry of a peacock.Abel Larinski was overcome by a mysterious emotion; he felt a voluptuous languor steal through his veins.He watched the smoke over Paris, and he saw floating in it an ethereal form whose face was partly concealed by a red hood.It smiled on him, and he read in this smile a promise of all the joys of the land of Canaan.
