“Listen, my old Lescande,” replied Camors, who had just passed his rhetoric examination in triumph.  “I do not know but that my destiny may be ordinary; but I am sure my heart can never be.  There I feel transports—­passions, which give me sometimes great joy, sometimes inexpressible suffering.  I burn to discover a world—­to save a nation—­to love a queen!  I understand nothing but great ambitions and noble alliances, and as for sentimental love, it troubles me but little.  My activity pants for a nobler and a wider field!

“I intend to attach myself to one of the great social parties, political or religious, that agitate the world at this era.  Which one I know not yet, for my opinions are not very fixed.  But as soon as I leave college I shall devote myself to seeking the truth.  And truth is easily found.  I shall read all the newspapers.

“Besides, Paris is an intellectual highway, so brilliantly lighted it is only necessary to open one’s eyes and have good faith and independence, to find the true road.

“And I am in excellent case for this, for though born a gentleman, I have no prejudices.  My father, who is himself very enlightened and very liberal, leaves me free.  I have an uncle who is a Republican; an aunt who is a Legitimist—­and what is still more, a saint; and another uncle who is a Conservative.  It is not vanity that leads me to speak of these things; but only a desire to show you that, having a foot in all parties, I am quite willing to compare them dispassionately and make a good choice.  Once master of the holy truth, you may be sure, dear old Lescande, I shall serve it unto death—­with my tongue, with my pen, and with my sword!”

Such sentiments as these, pronounced with sincere emotion and accompanied by a warm clasp of the hand, drew tears from the old Lescande, otherwise called Wolfhead.

CHAPTER II

FRUIT FROM THE HOTBED OF PARIS

Early one morning, about eight years after these high resolves, Louis de Camors rode out from the ‘porte-cochere’ of the small hotel he had occupied with his father.

Nothing could be gayer than Paris was that morning, at that charming golden hour of the day when the world seems peopled only with good and generous spirits who love one another.  Paris does not pique herself on her generosity; but she still takes to herself at this charming hour an air of innocence, cheerfulness, and amiable cordiality.

The little carts with bells, that pass one another rapidly, make one believe the country is covered with roses.  The cries of old Paris cut with their sharp notes the deep murmur of a great city just awaking.

You see the jolly concierges sweeping the white footpaths; half-dressed merchants taking down their shutters with great noise; and groups of ostlers, in Scotch caps, smoking and fraternizing on the hotel steps.

You hear the questions of the sociable neighborhood; the news proper to awakening; speculations on the weather bandied across from door to door, with much interest.