“Keep them,” replied the other, “I am paid;” and walked away.

“Bravo, Belisarius!” laughed Camors.  “Faith, gentlemen, I do not know whether you agree with me, but I am really charmed with this little episode.  I must go dream upon it.  By-bye, young ladies!  Good-day, Prince!”

An early cab was passing, he jumped in, and was driven rapidly to his hotel, on the Rue Babet-de-Jouy.

The door of the courtyard was open, but being still under the influence of the wine he had drunk, he failed to notice a confused group of servants and neighbors standing before the stable-doors.  Upon seeing him, these people became suddenly silent, and exchanged looks of sympathy and compassion.  Camors occupied the second floor of the hotel; and ascending the stairs, found himself suddenly facing his father’s valet.  The man was very pale, and held a sealed paper, which he extended with a trembling hand.

“What is it, Joseph?” asked Camors.

“A letter which—­which Monsieur le Comte wrote for you before he left.”

“Before he left! my father is gone, then?  But—­where—­how?  What, the devil! why do you weep?”

Unable to speak, the servant handed him the paper.  Camors seized it and tore it open.

“Good God! there is blood! what is this!” He read the first words—­“My son, life is a burden to me.  I leave it—­” and fell fainting to the floor.

The poor lad loved his father, notwithstanding the past.

They carried him to his chamber.

CHAPTER III

DEBRIS FROM THE REVOLUTION

De Camors, on leaving college had entered upon life with a heart swelling with the virtues of youth—­confidence, enthusiasm, sympathy.  The horrible neglect of his early education had not corrupted in his veins those germs of weakness which, as his father declared, his mother’s milk had deposited there; for that father, by shutting him up in a college to get rid of him for twelve years, had rendered him the greatest service in his power.

Those classic prisons surely do good.  The healthy discipline of the school; the daily contact of young, fresh hearts; the long familiarity with the best works, powerful intellects, and great souls of the ancients—­all these perhaps may not inspire a very rigid morality, but they do inspire a certain sentimental ideal of life and of duty which has its value.

The vague heroism which Camors first conceived he brought away with him.  He demanded nothing, as you may remember, but the practical formula for the time and country in which he was destined to live.  He found, doubtless, that the task he set himself was more difficult than he had imagined; that the truth to which he would devote himself—­but which he must first draw from the bottom of its well—­did not stand upon many compliments.  But he failed no preparation to serve her valiantly as a man might, as soon as she answered his appeal.  He had the advantage of several years of opposing to the excitements of his age and of an opulent life the austere meditations of the poor student.