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 a man feels a sudden, unaccountable impulse to smother in himself all human love and sympathy.

In the presence of this unhappy man, so unworthily treated, so broken-spirited, so confiding, Camors—­if there be any truth in old spiritual laws—­should have seen himself guilty of an atrocious act, which should have condemned him to a remorse almost unbearable.

But if it were true that the human herd was but the product of material forces in nature, producing, haphazard, strong beings and weak ones—­lambs and lions—­he had played only the lion’s part in destroying his companion.  He said to himself, with his father’s letter beneath his eyes, that this was the fact; and the reflection calmed him.