One look of Camors told Madame de Campvallon she was a widow.  She threw herself on the divan, buried her face in the cushions and sobbed aloud.  Camors still stood, his back against the mantelpiece, his eyes fixed, wrapped in his own thoughts.  He wished in all sincerity of heart that he could have awakened the dead and restored him to life.  He had sworn to deliver himself up to him without defence, if ever the old man demanded it of him for forgotten favors, betrayed friendship, and violated honor.  Now he had killed him.  If he had not slain him with his own hand, the crime was still there, in its most hideous form.  He saw it before him, he inhaled its odor—­he breathed its blood.  An uneasy glance of the Marquise recalled him to himself and he approached her.  They then conversed together in whispers, and he hastily explained to her the line of conduct she should adopt.

She must summon the servants, say the General had been taken suddenly ill, and that on entering her room he had been seized by an apoplectic stroke.

It was with some effort that she understood she was to wait long enough before giving the alarm to give Camors sufficient time to escape; and until then she was to remain in this frightful tete-a-tete, alone with the dead.

He pitied her, and decided on leaving the hotel by the apartment of M. de Campvallon, which had a private entrance on the street.

The Marquise immediately rang violently several times, and Camors did not retire till he heard the sound of hastening feet on the stairs.  The apartment of the General communicated with that of his wife by a short gallery.  There was a suite of apartments—­first a study, then his sleeping-room.  M. de Camors traversed this room with feelings we shall not attempt to describe and gained the street.  The surgeon testified that the General had died from the rupture of a vessel in the heart.  Two days after the interment took place, at which M. de Camors attended.  The same evening he left Paris to join his wife, who had gone to Reuilly the preceding week.

CHAPTER XXI

THE FEATHER IN THE BALANCE

One of the sweetest sensations in the world is that of a man who has just escaped the fantastic terrors of night mare; and who, awaking, his fore head bathed with icy sweat, says to himself, “It was only a dream!” This was, in some degree, the impression which Camors felt on awaking, the morning after his arrival at Reuilly, when his first glance fell on the sunlight streaming over the foliage, and when he heard beneath his window the joyous laugh of his little son.  He, however, was not dreaming; but his soul, crushed by the horrible tension of recent emotions, had a moment’s respite, and drank in, almost without alloy, the new calm that surrounded him.  He hastily dressed himself and descended to the garden, where his son ran to meet him.