I left Paris by post-chaise on the 14th April at seven in the morning.In ten days I should have reached the Austrian Capital.

I pass quickly over the first part of my journey.It was not marked by any incident, and the countries through which I went are getting to be too well-known to demand description.

Strasbourg was my first real stop, and I spent several nights lulled by the song of the wheels crushing the gravel of the highway, by that noisy monotony which, even more than silence, ends by sending you to sleep.I passed through a number of other towns, and near the Austrian frontier I was held up for some time in Salzburg.Then, at last, on 25th April, at six thirty-five in the evening, the steaming horses dashed into the yard of the best hotel in Vienna.

I stayed only thirty-six hours, including two nights, in that Capital.On my return I hoped to visit it in detail.

Vienna is neither traversed nor bordered by the Danube, and I had to travel a league in another vehicle to reach the bank of the river whose helpful waters were going to take me down to Ragz.On the previous night I had made certain of a place in a lighter, the Dorothy, fitted up to take passengers.

On board there was a little of everybody—all sorts of people, Germans, Austrians, Hungarians, Russians, English.The passengers occupied the stern, for the merchandise was so much piled up in the bow that there was no room for anyone.

My first thought was to take possession of a bunk for the night in the communal dormitory.To take my trunk into it was not to be dreamt of:I had to leave it in the open air near a bench on which I expected to sit for a long time during the voyage, so as to keep an eye on my luggage.

Under the double impulse of the current and of a fairly lively wind the barge went quickly downstream.cleaving with her prow the yellowish waters of that beautiful river, for whatever the legends may say they seem to be tinted rather with ochre than with ultramarine.We passed many ships, their sails spread out to the wind, carrying the products of the countryside, which stretched out of sight on both banks.We also passed near one of those gigantic rafts, trains of wood formed of a complete forest, on which are built floating villages.erected at the start, destroyed on arrival, and recalling the immense Brazilian constructions of the Amazon.Then island followed island, irregularly sown, great or small, most of them scarcely emerging from the water, and so low-lying that a flood of a few inches would have submerged them.It rejoiced the sight to see them so fertile, so fresh, with their lines of trees and the field enlivened with many-coloured flowers.

We also passed aquatic villages built on the water's edge, the wake of the boats seeming to make them sway upon their supporting piles.More than once we went, at the risk of carrying away our masts, beneath a rope stretched from one shore to the other, the rope of a ferry which bore two poles flying the national flag.

So at last we reached Budapest, where I spent several days sight-seeing.On the evening before my departure I entered one of the chief hostels to rest.I was just drinking the white wine of the country when my glance fell on an unfolded newspaper.I picked it up unthinkingly, and two words in great Gothic letters at once attracted my attention:‘STORITZ ANNIVERSARY'

This name was that mentioned by the Police Lieutenant, that of the famous German Alchemist and also of that would-be suitor for the hand of Myra Roderich.There could be no doubt about that.

This is what I read:

‘In three weeks'time, on 25 th May, the anniversary of Otto Storitz will be celebrated at Spremberg.It may well be asserted that the people will crowd to the cemetery in the birthplace of that celebrated savant.

“As is well known, this extraordinary man has made Germany famous by his marvellous work, by his astonishing discoveries, by the inventions which have contributed so much to the progress of physical science.'

The author of the article was certainly not exaggerating.Otto Storitz was justly celebrated in the scientific world.But what gave me food for thought was what followed.

‘Nobody can be unaware that during his lifetime those inclined to belief in the supernatural looked upon Otto Storitz as something of a sorcerer.A century or two earlier it is not at all unlikely that he would have been arrested, condemned and burned in the market-place.We should add that since his death a number of credulous people regard him more than ever as a dealer in sorcery and incantations, and as possessed of superhuman power.What reassures them is that he has taken his secrets with him to the tomb.For such people Otto Storitz will forever remain a cabalist, a magician, and even a demoniac.'

Whatever one is to think about that, I reflected, the important thing is that his son was definitely shown out by Doctor Roderich.Otherwise it left me cold!

The article concluded with these words:

‘So there is reason to think that the crowd will be great, as always at the anniversary ceremony, not to mention his real friends who still remain faithful to Otto Storitz'memory.It is not even rash to think that the superstitious population of Spremberg is expecting some wonder and wants to witness it.From what is now being said in the town, the cemetery ought to be the scene of the most unlikely and the most extraordinary phenomenon.Nobody would be surprised if, in the midst of the general alarm, the tombstone were to rise up, and the fantastic savant to be revived in all his glory.

‘According to the opinion of some, Otto Storitz cannot be dead and his funeral was nothing but a sham.

‘We will not waste time in discussing such nonsense.But as everybody knows, superstition has nothing to do with logic, and many years will elapse before commonsense destroys these ridiculous legends.'

Reading this did not fail to arouse some depressing thoughts.That Otto Storitz was dead and buried, nothing was more certain.That his tomb was to open on 25th May, and that he was to appear like a new Lazarus before the crowd, that was not worth while thinking about for a moment.But if the death of the father could not be denied, it was equally true that he had a son alive and kicking, that Wilhelm Storitz whom the Roderich family had rejected.And was there not reason to fear that he might give some trouble to Marc, that he might create difficulties at his wedding?

‘Good, 'I said to myself as I threw down the paper, ‘I'm being unreasonable.Wilhelm Storitz has asked for Myra's hand and she has refused it……What then?Nothing more has been seen of him, this Storitz, and as Marc has never said a word about this business, I don't see why I should think it important.'

I sent for pen, paper and ink and wrote to my brother to tell him that I should be leaving Budapest next day and that I should arrive during the afternoon of the 11th May, for I was not more than sixty-five leagues from Ragz.I mentioned that so far my journey had been carried out without incident or delay, and that I saw no reason why I should not finish it as unevenfully.I did not forget to send my compliments to Dr.and Madame Roderich and, I added, for Mademoiselle Myra, the assurance of my affectionate sympathy that Marc must be sure to give her.

Next day, at eight, the Dorothy cast off her moorings and went downstream.

It goes without saying that, since we left Vienna, every stop had seen a change among the passengers;some had landed and others had come aboard.There were only five or six, among them some Englishmen, who, having embarked at the Austrian Capital, were going down to the Black Sea.

At Budapest, as elsewhere, the Dorothy had taken on board some new passengers.One of them especially attracted my attention because of his strange appearance.

He was a man of about thirty-five, tall, very blond, with a harsh and very unsympathetic expression.His whole attitude showed a haughty disdain.Several times when he spoke to members of the crew I could hear his dry unpleasant voice with its cutting tones.

This passenger did not seem to want to have anything to do with anyone.That mattered little to me, for so far I had maintained an extreme reserve with regard to my travelling companions.The Captain was the only one from whom I had asked any information.

When I thought about this person, I got the impression that he was a German, quite probably coming from Prussia.That could be felt, as they say, and everything about him bore the Teutonic stamp.Impossible to confuse him with these brave Hungarians, these sympathetic Magyars, the true friends of France.

After leaving Budapest the lighter hardly went any faster than the current, the faint breeze giving it very little headway.So there was every opportunity for observing such details.

The reader may be surprised—assuming that I ever have any readers!—by the complete banality of this journey when I had begun by stressing its queerness?If so, let him be patient.Before long it will be as strange as he could wish.

Indeed, it was not very long when there occurred the first incident that I can remember.One of the most insignificant of incidents, anyhow.Have I the right to use the word‘incident'for a fact of such little importance, and, what was more, one that was quite imaginary—I had the proof of this almost at once?However that may be, here it is.

I was in the stern of the boat, standing near my trunk, to whose lid was nailed a paper on which Whoever liked could read my name, address, and status.Leaning on the rail, I was vacantly letting my eyes wander over the scenery, and, I declare, I was not thinking of anything.

Suddenly I fell a vague sensation that there was someone behind me.

Anyone who has felt it knows that vague impression that one gets when he is being watched unknown to himself by someone whom he did not know was there.This feeling is badly explained, or not explained at all, and, anyhow it is fairly mysterious.Well, at that moment, that was what I felt.

I turned round at once.But there was nobody near me.

The impression had been so clear that when I realised I was alone I stood gaping.But at last I had to yield to the evidence, and to admit that more than ten fathoms separated me from my nearest fellow-passenger.

While scolding myself for my dull nervousness, I went back to my former attitude, and almost certainly I should not have retained any memory of this futile incident if events which I was far from expecting had not brought it back to my memory.

For the time being, at any rate, I thought no more about it, and I went on staring at the scenery, which produced a curious mirage—like effect.

Next day's journey was uneventful and on the 9th May we set off once more.

About nine, just as I was going into the cab in, the German passenger came out of it.We nearly bumped into one another, and I was amazed by the strange look he cast upon me.It was the first time that chance had brought us together, and yet not merely was there insolence in his glance, but—I realised clearly—anyone would have sworn that there was also hatred.

What grudge did he bear against me?Did he hate me simply because I was French?The thought indeed came to me that he had been able to read my name on the lid of my trunk or on my travelling-bag in the cabin.That might be why he was looking at me in that way.

Well, if he knew my name, I had made up my mind not to know his, for he interested me very little.

On 10th May the individual in question passed me several times on the deck, and he seemed to be staring at me in a way I certainly found annoying.I don't like to pick a quarrel with anyone, but no more do I like being stared at with such disagreeable persistence.If he had something to tell me, why didn't the insolent fellow speak?it isn't with the eyes that one speaks in such circumstances, and even if he didn't understand French I should have been able to answer him in his own language.

But if it chanced that I ever had a word with this Teuton, it would be better for me to get some information about him, so I went up to the captain of the lighter and asked him if he knew him.

‘It's the first time I've seen him, 'he told me.

‘He's German, 'I continued.

‘No doubt about that, Monsieur Vidal, and I think he's a German twice over, for he must be a Prussian.'

‘Well, once would be quite enough!'I exclaimed.This reply was somewhat unworthy, I admit, of a cultivated mind, but it seemed to please the captain, who was Hungarian by birth.

Next day, following the numerous bends of the river, the Dorothy made for Vukovar.After we left that town I no longer saw the German on board, so he must, no doubt, have landed there;thus I was freed from his presence and that saved my asking him for an explanation.

Now, too, my mind was occupied with other thoughts.In a few hours we should reach Ragz.What a pleasure to see my brother from whom I had been separated for over a year, to shake his hand, to chat with him about everything that interested us, to make the acquaintance of his new family!

About five in the afternoon, behind the trees on the left bank there appeared a number of churches, some crowned with domes, others dominated by steeples which stood out against the sky.These were the first outlines of a large town.It was Ragz.Beyond the last turning of the river, we saw it in its entirety, picturesquely seated at the foot of some lofty hills, one of which bore the ancient feudal castle, the traditional acropolis of the age-old cities of Hungary.

Thrust onwards by the breeze, the lighter touched the landing-stage, and it was at that very instant that there occurred the second incident of my journey.

I was standing near the gangway, looking at the line of quays, while most of the passengers were hurrying to go ashore.At the far end of the landing-stage were several groups of people, and I had no doubt that Marc was among them.

Then, as I was trying to catch sight of him, I heard.quite close to me, and distinctly pronounced in the German language, these unexpected words:

‘If Marc Vidal marries Myra Roderich, woe unto her, woe unto him!'

I turned round at once……I was alone.And yet someone had just spoken to me!Yes, someone had spoken to me, and I will go further and say that the voice was not unfamiliar……

And yet nobody, I repeat, nobody!I must have been mistaken in thinking that I could hear those threatening words, some sort of hallucination, nothing more……My nerves must really be in a wretched state, to play such tricks upon me within two days……Bewildered, I once again stared round……No, there was nobody there……What could I do but shrug my shoulders and simply go ashore?

And that indeed is what I did, making my way with some difficulty through the tumultuous crowd which filled the Ianding-stage.