He sold a necklace, and set out for Bucharest, some one having told him that he certainly would make his fortune there.

He gave music-lessons; this wearisome profession did not suit him, he could not endure the constraint and the regular hours.

The boys plagued him--he would willingly have wrung their necks; the girls treated him like a dog--they never thought of his being handsome, because they suspected him of being a Jew.

Why had he gone to Bucharest--a city where all Germans are Jews, and where Jews are not considered men?
Although he had earned a little money, he grew melancholy, and he began to think seriously of killing himself." Count Abel Larinski leaned forward, plucked a spray of heather, tickled his lips with it, and began to laugh; then, striking his breast, he said, in an undertone, "Thank God, Samuel Brohl is not dead, for he is here!" He spoke the truth: Samuel Brohl was not dead, and life was of value to him, since he had met Mlle.

Antoinette Moriaz in the cathedral in Chur.
It was Samuel Brohl who had come to Cormeilles, and who was seated, at this moment, in the midst of a grove of oaks.