“When I see a Tonnelier a great dignitary!  It makes me long for the pen of Tacitus, on my word.  When I was retired in ’forty-eight, under a mean and cruel injustice they did me, I had not reached the age of exemption.  I was still capable of good and loyal service; but probably I could have waited until an amendment.  I found it at least in the confidence of my brave and faithful constituents.  But, my young friend, one tires of everything.  The Assemblies at the Luxembourg—­I mean the Palace of the Bourbons—­fatigue me.  In short, whatever regret I may feel at parting from my honorable colleagues, and from my faithful constituents, I shall abdicate my functions whenever you are ready and willing to accept them.  Have you not some property in this district?”

“Yes, General, a little property which belonged to my mother; a small manor, with a little land round it, called Reuilly.”

“Reuilly!  Not two steps from Des Rameures!  Certainly—­certainly!  Well, that is one foot in the stirrup.”

“But then there is one difficulty; I am obliged to sell it.”

“The devil!  And why?”

“It is all that is left to me, and it only brings me eleven thousand francs a year; and to embark in business I need capital—­a beginning.  I prefer not to borrow.”

The General rose, and once more his military tramp shook the gallery.  Then he threw himself back on the sofa.

“You must not sell that property!  I owe you nothing, ’tis true, but I have an affection for you.  You refuse to be my adopted son.  Well, I regret this, and must have recourse to other projects to aid you.  I warn you I shall try other projects.  You must not sell your lands if you wish to become a deputy, for the country people—­especially those of Des Rameures—­will not hear of it.  Meantime you will need funds.  Permit me to offer you three hundred thousand francs.  You may return them when you can, without interest, and if you never return them you will confer a very great favor upon me.”

“But in truth, General—­”

“Come, come!  Accept it as from a relative—­from a friend—­from your father’s friend—­on any ground you please, so you accept.  If not, you will wound me seriously.”

Camors rose, took the General’s hand, and pressing it with emotion, said, briefly: 

“I accept, sir.  I thank you!”

The General sprang up at these words like a furious lion, his moustache bristling, his nostrils dilating, his chest heaving.  Staring at the young Count with real ferocity, he suddenly drew him to his breast and embraced him with great fervor.  Then he strode to the door with his usual solemnity, and quickly brushing a tear from his cheek, left the room.

The General was a good man; but, like many good people, he had not been happy.  You might smile at his oddities:  you never could reproach him with vices.

He was a small man, but he had a great soul.  Timid at heart, especially with women, he was delicate, passionate, and chaste.  He had loved but little, and never had been loved at all.  He declared that he had retired from all friendship with women, because of a wrong that he had suffered.  At forty years of age he had married the daughter of a poor colonel who had been killed by the enemy.  Not long after, his wife had deceived him with one of his aides-de-camp.