the vistula is the backbone of poland, and, from its source in the carpathians to its mouth at dantzic, runs the whole length of that which for three hundred years was the leading power of eastern europe. at cracow—the tomb of many kings—it passes half round the citadel, a shallow, sluggish river; and from the ancient capital of poland to the present capital—warsaw—it finds its way across the great plain, amid the cultivated fields, through the quiet villages of galicia and masovia.

warsaw is built upon two sides of the river, the ancient town looking from a height across the broad stream to the suburb of praga. in praga—a hundred years ago—the russians, under suvaroff, slew thirteen thousand poles; in the river between praga and the citadel two thousand were drowned. less than forty years ago a crowd of poles assembled in the square in front of the castle to protest against the tyranny of their conquerors. they were unarmed, and when the russian soldiery fired upon them they stood and cheered, and refused to disperse. again, in cold blood, the troops fired, and the warsaw massacre continued for three hours in the streets.

warsaw is a gay and cheerful town, with fine streets and good shops, with a cold, gray climate, and a history as grim as that of any city in the world save paris. like most cities, warsaw has its principal street, and, like all things polish, this street has a terrible name—the krakowski przedmiescie. it is in this krakowski faubourg that the hotel de l'europe stands, where history in its time has played a part, where kings and princes have slept, where the jew hermani was murdered, where the bodies of the first five victims of the russian soldiery were carried after the massacre and there photographed, and, finally, where the great light from the west—miss julie p. mangles—alighted one may morning, looking a little dim and travel-stained.

“told you,” said mr. mangles to his sister, who for so lofty a soul was within almost measurable distance of snappishness—“told you you would have nothing to complain of in the hotel, jooly.”

but miss mangles was not to be impressed or mollified. only once before had her brother and niece seen this noble woman in such a frame of mind—on their arrival at the rising town of new canterbury, massachusetts, when the deputation of women workers and wishful waiters for the truth failed to reach the railway depot because they happened on a fire in a straw-hat manufactory on their way, and heard that the newest pattern of straw hat was to be had for the picking up in the open street.

there had been no deputation at warsaw station to meet miss mangles. london had not recognized her. berlin had shaken its official head when she proposed to visit its plenipotentiaries, and hers was the ignoble position of the prophet—not without honor in his own country—who cannot get a hearing in foreign parts.

“this is even worse than i anticipated,” said miss mangles, watching the hotel porters in a conflict with miss netty cahere's large trunks.

“what is worse, jooly?”

“poland!” replied miss mangles, in a voice full of foreboding, and yet with a ring of determination in it, as if to say that she had reformed worse countries than poland in her day.

“i allow,” said mr. mangles, slowly, “that at this hour in the morning it appears to be a one-horse country. you want your breakfast, jooly?”

“breakfast will not put two horses to it, joseph,” replied miss mangles, looking not at her brother, but at the imposing hotel concierge with a bland severity indicative of an intention of keeping him strictly in his place.

miss netty quietly relieved her aunt of the small impedimenta of travel, with a gentle deference which was better than words. miss cahere seemed always to know how to say or do the right thing, or, more difficult still, to keep the right silence. either this, or the fact that miss mangles was conscious of having convinced her hearers that she was as expert in the lighter swordplay of debate as in the rolling platform period, somewhat alleviated the lady's humor, and she turned towards the historic staircase, which had run with the blood of jew and pole, with a distinct air of condescension.

“tell me,” said mr. joseph mangles to the concierge, in a voice of deep depression which only added to the incongruity of his french, “what languages you speak.”

“russian, french, polish, german, english—”

“that'll do to go on with,” interrupted mangles, in his own tongue. “we'll get along in english. my name is mangles.”

whereupon the porter bowed low, as to one for whom first-floor rooms and a salon had been bespoken, and waved his hand towards the stairs, where stood a couple of waiters.

of the party, miss cahere alone appeared cool and composed and neat. she might, to judge from her bright eyes and delicate complexion, have slept all night in a comfortable bed. her hat and her hair had the appearance of having been arranged at leisure by a maid. miss netty had on the surface a little manner of self-depreciating flurry which sometimes seemed to conceal a deep and abiding calm. she had little worldly theories, too, which she often enunciated in her confidential manner; and one of these was that one should always, in all places and at all times, be neat and tidy, for no one knows whom one may meet. and, be it noted in passing, there have been many successful human careers based upon this simple rule.

she followed the waiter up-stairs with that soft rustle of the dress which conveys even in the obtuse masculine mind a care for clothes and the habit of dealing with a good dressmaker. at the head of the stairs she gave a little cry of surprise, for paul deulin was coming along the broad corridor towards her, swinging the key of his bedroom and nonchalantly humming an air from a recent comic opera. he was, it appeared, as much at home here as in london or paris or new york.

“ah, mademoiselle!” he said, standing hat in hand before her, “who could have dreamed of such a pleasure—here and at this moment—in this sad town?”

“you seemed gay enough—you were singing,” answered miss cahere.

“it was a sad little air, mademoiselle, and i was singing flat. perhaps you noticed it?”

“no, i never know when people are singing flat or not. i have no ear for music. i only know when i like to hear a person's voice. i have no accomplishments, you know,” said netty, with a little humble drawing-in of the shoulders.

“ah!” said deulin, with a gesture which conveyed quite clearly his opinion that she had need of none. and he turned to greet miss mangles and her brother.

miss mangles received him coldly. even the greatest of women is liable to feminine moments, and may know when she is not looking her best. she shook hands, with her platform bow—from the waist—and passed on.

“hallo!” said joseph mangles. “got here before us? thought you'd turn up. dismal place, eh?”

“you have just arrived, i suppose?” said deulin.

“oh, please don't laugh at us!” broke in netty. “of course you can see that. you must know that we have just come out of a sleeping-car!”

“you always look, mademoiselle, as if you had come straight from heaven,” answered deulin, looking at miss cahere, whose hand was at her hair. it was pretty hair and a pretty, slim, american hand. but she did not seem to hear, for she had turned away quickly and was speaking to her uncle. deulin accompanied them along the corridor, which is a long one, for the hotel de l'europe is a huge quadrangle.

“you startled me by your sudden appearance, you know,” she said, turning again to the frenchman, which was probably intended for an explanation of her heightened color. she was one of those fortunate persons who blush easily—at the right time. “i am sure uncle joseph will be pleased to have you in the same hotel. of course, we know no one in warsaw. have you friends here?”

“only one,” replied deulin—“the waiter who serves the zakuska counter down-stairs. i knew him when he was an austrian nobleman, travelling for his health in france. he does not recognize me now.”

“will you stay long?”

“i did not intend to,” replied deulin, “when i came out of my room this morning.”

“but you and mr. cartoner have polish friends, have you not?” asked netty.

“not in warsaw,” was the reply.

“suppose we shall meet again,” broke in joseph mangles at this moment, halting on the threshold of the gorgeous apartment. he tapped the number on the door in order to draw deulin's attention to it. “always welcome,” he said. “funny we should meet here. means mischief, i suppose.”

“i suppose it does,” answered deulin, looking guilelessly at netty.

he took his leave and continued his way down-stairs. out in the krakowski faubourg the sun was shining brightly and the world was already astir, while the shops were opening and buyers already hurrying home from the morning markets. it is a broad street, with palaces and churches on either side. every palace has its story; two of them were confiscated by the russian government because a bomb, which was thrown from the pavement, might possibly have come from one of the windows. every church has rung to the strains of the forbidden polish hymn—“at thy altar we raise our prayer; deign to restore us, o lord, our free country.” into almost all of them the soldiers have forced their way to make arrests.

paul deulin walked slowly up the faubourg towards the new town. the clocks were striking the hour. he took off his hat, and gave a little sigh of enjoyment of the fresh air and bright sun.

“just heaven, forgive me!” he said, with upturned eyes. “i have already told several lies, and it is only eight o'clock. i wonder whether i shall find cartoner out of bed?”

he walked on in a leisurely way, brushing past jew and gentile, gay cossack officers, and that dull polish peasant who has assuredly lived through greater persecution than any other class of men. he turned to the right up a broad street and then to the left into a narrower, quieter thoroughfare, called the jasna. the houses in the jasna are mostly large, with court-yards, where a few trees struggle for existence. they are let out in flats, or in even smaller apartments, where quiet people live—professors, lawyers, and other persons, who have an interest within themselves and are not dependent on the passer-by for entertainment.

into one of these large houses deulin turned, and gave his destination to the russian doorkeeper as he passed the lodge. this was the second floor, and the door was opened by a quick-mannered man, to whom the frenchman nodded familiarly.

“is he up yet?” he inquired, and called the man by his christian name.

“this hour, monsieur,” replied the servant, leading the way along a narrow corridor. he opened a door, and stood aside for deulin to pass into a comfortably furnished room, where cartoner was seated at a writing-table.

“good-morning,” said the frenchman. as he passed the table he took up a book and went towards the window, where he sat down in a deep arm-chair. “don't let me disturb you,” he continued. “finish what you are doing.”

“news?” inquired cartoner, laying aside his pen. he looked at deulin gravely beneath his thoughtful brows. they were marvellously dissimilar—these friends.

“bah!” returned deulin, throwing aside the book he had picked up—lelewel's history of poland, in polish. “i trouble for your future, cartoner. you take life so seriously—you, who need not work at all. even uncles cannot live forever, and some day you will be in a position to lend money to poor devils of french diplomatists. think of that!”

he reflected for a moment.

“yes,” he said, after a pause, “i have news of all sorts—news which goes to prove that you are quite right to take an apartment instead of going to the hotel. the mangles arrived here this morning—mangles frere, mangles soeur, and miss cahere. i say, cartoner—” he paused, and examined his own boots with a critical air.

“i say, cartoner, how old do you put me?”

“fifty.”

“all that, mon cher?—all that? old enough to play the part of an old fool who excels all other fools.”

cartoner took up his pen again. he had suddenly thought of something to put down, and in his odd, direct way proceeded to write, while deulin watched him.

“i say,” said the frenchman at length, and cartoner paused, pen in hand—“what would you think of me if i fell in love with netty cahere?”

“i should think you a very lucky man if netty cahere fell in love with you,” was the reply.

the frenchman shrugged his shoulders.

“yes,” he said. “i have known you a good many years, and have gathered that that is your way of looking at things. you want your wife to be in love with you. odd! i suppose it is english. well, i don't know if there is any harm done, but i certainly had a queer sensation when i saw miss cahere suddenly this morning. you think her a nice girl?”

“very nice,” replied cartoner, gravely.

deulin looked at him with an odd smile, but cartoner was looking at the letter before him.

“what i like about her is her quiet ways,” suggested deulin, tentatively.

“yes.”

then they lapsed into silence, while cartoner thought of his letter. deulin, to judge from a couple of sharp sighs which caught him unawares, must have been thinking of netty cahere. at length the frenchman rose and took his leave, making an appointment to dine with cartoner that evening.

out in the street he took off his hat to high heaven again.

“more lies!” he murmured, humbly.