At the club they rallied him on his prudence.  He had had, like others, his run of follies; but he had soon got disgusted with what it is the fashion to call pleasure.  The noble profession of bon vivant appeared to him very tame and tiresome.  He did not enjoy passing his nights at cards; nor did he appreciate the society of those frail sisters, who in Paris give notoriety to their lovers.  He affirmed that a gentleman was not necessarily an object of ridicule because he would not expose himself in the theatre with these women.  Finally, none of his friends could ever inoculate him with a passion for the turf.

As doing nothing wearied him, he attempted, like the parvenu, to give some meaning to life by work.  He purposed, after a while, to take part in public affairs; and, as he had often been struck with the gross ignorance of many men in power, he wished to avoid their example.  He busied himself with politics; and this was the cause of all his quarrels with his father.  The one word of “liberal” was enough to throw the count into convulsions; and he suspected his son of liberalism, ever since reading an article by the viscount, published in the “Revue des Deux Mondes.”

His ideas, however, did not prevent his fully sustaining his rank.  He spent most nobly on the world the revenue which placed his father and himself a little above it.  His establishment, distinct from the count’s, was arranged as that of a wealthy young gentleman’s ought to be.  His liveries left nothing to be desired; and his horses and equipages were celebrated.  Letters of invitation were eagerly sought for to the grand hunting parties, which he formed every year towards the end of October at Commarin,—­an admirable piece of property, covered with immense woods.

Albert’s love for Claire—­a deep, well-considered love—­had contributed not a little to keep him from the habits and life of the pleasant and elegant idleness indulged in by his friends.  A noble attachment is always a great safeguard.  In contending against it, M. de Commarin had only succeeded in increasing its intensity and insuring its continuance.  This passion, so annoying to the count, was the source of the most vivid, the most powerful emotions in the viscount.  Ennui was banished from his existence.

All his thoughts took the same direction; all his actions had but one aim.  Could he look to the right or the left, when, at the end of his journey, he perceived the reward so ardently desired?  He resolved that he would never have any wife but Claire; his father absolutely refused his consent.  The effort to change this refusal had long been the business of his life.  Finally, after three years of perseverance, he had triumphed; the count had given his consent.  And now, just as he was reaping the happiness of success, Noel had arrived, implacable as fate, with his cursed letters.

On leaving M. de Commarin, and while slowly mounting the stairs which led to his apartments, Albert’s thoughts reverted to Claire.  What was she doing at that moment?  Thinking of him no doubt.  She knew that the crisis would come that very evening, or the next day at the latest.  She was probably praying.  Albert was thoroughly exhausted; his head felt dizzy, and seemed ready to burst.  He rang for his servant, and ordered some tea.