Monsieur de Camors — Complete. Feuillet Octave

presence and an indefinable charm of manner.

      The father and son saw little of each other. M. de Camors was too proud to entangle his son in his own debaucheries; but the course of every-day life sometimes brought them together at meal-time. He would then listen with cool mockery to the enthusiastic or despondent speeches of the youth. He never deigned to argue seriously, but responded in a few bitter words, that fell like drops of sleet on the few sparks still glowing in the son’s heart.

      Becoming gradually discouraged, the latter lost all taste for work, and gave himself up, more and more, to the idle pleasures of his position. Abandoning himself wholly to these, he threw into them all the seductions of his person, all the generosity of his character—but at the same time a sadness always gloomy, sometimes desperate.

      The bitter malice he displayed, however, did not prevent his being loved by women and renowned among men. And the latter imitated him.

      He aided materially in founding a charming school of youth without smiles. His air of ennui and lassitude, which with him at least had the excuse of a serious foundation, was servilely copied by the youth around him, who never knew any greater distress than an overloaded stomach, but whom it pleased, nevertheless, to appear faded in their flower and contemptuous of human nature.

      We have seen Camors in this phase of his existence. But in reality nothing was more foreign to him than the mask of careless disdain that the young man assumed. Upon falling into the common ditch, he, perhaps, had one advantage over his fellows: he did not make his bed with base resignation; he tried persistently to raise himself from it by a violent struggle, only to be hurled upon it once more.

      Strong souls do not sleep easily: indifference weighs them down.

      They demand a mission—a motive for action—and faith.

      Louis de Camors was yet to find his.

CHAPTER IV. A NEW ACTRESS IN A NOVEL ROLE

       Table of Contents

Louis de Camor’s father had not I told him all in that last letter.

       Table of Contents

      Instead of leaving him a fortune, he left him only embarrassments, for he was three fourths ruined. The disorder of his affairs had begun a long time before, and it was to repair them that he had married; a process that had not proved successful. A large inheritance on which he had relied as coming to his wife went elsewhere—to endow a charity hospital. The Comte de Camors began a suit to recover it before the tribunal of the Council of State, but compromised it for an annuity of thirty thousand francs. This stopped at his death. He enjoyed, besides, several fat sinecures, which his name, his social rank, and his personal address secured him from some of the great insurance companies. But these resources did not survive him; he only rented the house he had occupied; and the young Comte de Camors found himself suddenly reduced to the provision of his mother’s dowry—a bare pittance to a man of his habits and rank.

      His father had often assured him he could leave him nothing, so the son was accustomed to look forward to this situation. Therefore, when he realized it, he was neither surprised nor revolted by the improvident egotism of which he was the victim. His reverence for his father continued unabated, and he did not read with the less respect or confidence the singular missive which figures at the beginning of this story. The moral theories which this letter advanced were not new to him. They were a part of the very atmosphere around him; he had often revolved them in his feverish brain; yet, never before had they appeared to him in the condensed form of a dogma, with the clear precision of a practical code; nor as now, with the authorization of such a voice and of such an example.

      One incident gave powerful aid in confirming the impression of these last pages on his mind. Eight days after his father’s death, he was reclining on the lounge in his smoking-room, his face dark as night and as his thoughts, when a servant entered and handed him a card. He took it listlessly, and read “Lescande, architect.” Two red spots rose to his pale cheeks—“I do not see any one,” he said.

      “So I told this gentleman,” replied the servant, “but he insists in such an extraordinary manner—”

      “In an extraordinary manner?”

      “Yes, sir; as if he had something very serious to communicate.”

      “Something serious—aha! Then let him in.” Camors rose and paced the chamber, a smile of bitter mockery wreathing his lips. “And must I now kill him?” he muttered between his teeth.

      Lescande entered, and his first act dissipated the apprehension his conduct had caused. He rushed to the young Count and seized him by both hands, while Camors remarked that his face was troubled and his lips trembled. “Sit down and be calm,” he said.

      “My friend,” said the other, after a pause, “I come late to see you, for which I crave pardon; but—I am myself so miserable! See, I am in mourning!”

      Camors felt a chill run to his very marrow. “In mourning! and why?” he asked, mechanically.

      “Juliette is dead!” sobbed Lescande, and covered his eyes with his great hands.

      “Great God!” cried Camors in a hollow voice. He listened a moment to Lescande’s bitter sobs, then made a movement to take his hand, but dared not do it. “Great God! is it possible?” he repeated.

      “It was so sudden!” sobbed Lescande, brokenly. “It seems like a dream—a frightful dream! You know the last time you visited us she was not well. You remember I told you she had wept all day. Poor child! The morning of my return she was seized with congestion—of the lungs—of the brain—I don’t know!—but she is dead! And so good!—so gentle, so loving! to the last moment! Oh, my friend! my friend! A few moments before she died, she called me to her side. ‘Oh, I love you so! I love you so!’ she said. ‘I never loved any but you—you only! Pardon me!—oh, pardon me!’ Pardon her, poor child! My God, for what? for dying?—for she never gave me a moment’s grief before in this world. Oh, God of mercy!”

      “I beseech you, my friend—”

      “Yes, yes, I do wrong. You also have your griefs.

      “But we are all selfish, you know. However, it was not of that that I came to speak. Tell me—I know not whether a report I hear is correct. Pardon me if I mistake, for you know I never would dream of offending you; but they say that you have been left in very bad circumstances. If this is indeed so, my friend—”

      “It is not,” interrupted Camors, abruptly.

      “Well, if it were—I do not intend keeping my little house. Why should I, now? My little son can wait while I work for him. Then, after selling my house, I shall have two hundred thousand francs. Half of this is yours—return it when you can!”

      “I thank you, my unselfish friend,” replied Camors, much moved, “but I need nothing. My affairs are disordered, it is true; but I shall still remain richer than you.”

      “Yes, but with your tastes—”

      “Well?”

      “At all events, you know where to find me. I may count upon you—may I not?”

      “You may.”

      “Adieu, my friend! I can do you no good now; but I shall see you again—shall I not?”

      “Yes—another time.”

      Lescande departed, and the young Count remained immovable, with his features convulsed and his eyes fixed on vacancy.

      This moment decided his whole future.

      Sometimes