Young milliners, a little late, walk briskly toward town with elastic step, making now a short pause before a shop just opened; again taking wing like a bee just scenting a flower.

Even the dead in this gay Paris morning seem to go gayly to the cemetery, with their jovial coachmen grinning and nodding as they pass.

Superbly aloof from these agreeable impressions, Louis de Camors, a little pale, with half-closed eyes and a cigar between his teeth, rode into the Rue de Bourgogne at a walk, broke into a canter on the Champs Elysees, and galloped thence to the Bois.  After a brisk run, he returned by chance through the Porte Maillot, then not nearly so thickly inhabited as it is to-day.  Already, however, a few pretty houses, with green lawns in front, peeped out from the bushes of lilac and clematis.  Before the green railings of one of these a gentleman played hoop with a very young, blond-haired child.  His age belonged in that uncertain area which may range from twenty-five to forty.  He wore a white cravat, spotless as snow; and two triangles of short, thick beard, cut like the boxwood at Versailles, ornamented his cheeks.  If Camors saw this personage he did not honor him with the slightest notice.  He was, notwithstanding, his former comrade Lescande, who had been lost sight of for several years by his warmest college friend.  Lescande, however, whose memory seemed better, felt his heart leap with joy at the majestic appearance of the young cavalier who approached him.  He made a movement to rush forward; a smile covered his good-natured face, but it ended in a grimace.  Evidently he had been forgotten.  Camors, now not more than a couple of feet from him, was passing on, and his handsome countenance gave not the slightest sign of emotion.  Suddenly, without changing a single line of his face, he drew rein, took the cigar from his lips, and said, in a tranquil voice: 

“Hello!  You have no longer a wolf head!”

“Ha!  Then you know me?” cried Lescande.

“Know you?  Why not?”

“I thought—­I was afraid—­on account of my beard—­”

“Bah! your beard does not change you—­except that it becomes you.  But what are you doing here?”

“Doing here!  Why, my dear friend, I am at home here.  Dismount, I pray you, and come into my house.”

“Well, why not?” replied Camors, with the same voice and manner of supreme indifference; and, throwing his bridle to the servant who followed him, he passed through the gardengate, led, supported, caressed by the trembling hand of Lescande.

The garden was small, but beautifully tended and full of rare plants.  At the end, a small villa, in the Italian style, showed its graceful porch.

“Ah, that is pretty!” exclaimed Camors, at last.

“And you recognize my plan, Number Three, do you not?” asked Lescande, eagerly.

“Your plan Number Three?  Ah, yes, perfectly,” replied Camors, absently.  “And your pretty little cousin—­is she within?”