His father had often assured him he could leave him nothing, so the son was accustomed to look forward to this situation.  Therefore, when he realized it, he was neither surprised nor revolted by the improvident egotism of which he was the victim.  His reverence for his father continued unabated, and he did not read with the less respect or confidence the singular missive which figures at the beginning of this story.  The moral theories which this letter advanced were not new to him.  They were a part of the very atmosphere around him; he had often revolved them in his feverish brain; yet, never before had they appeared to him in the condensed form of a dogma, with the clear precision of a practical code; nor as now, with the authorization of such a voice and of such an example.

One incident gave powerful aid in confirming the impression of these last pages on his mind.  Eight days after his father’s death, he was reclining on the lounge in his smoking-room, his face dark as night and as his thoughts, when a servant entered and handed him a card.  He took it listlessly, and read “Lescande, architect.”  Two red spots rose to his pale cheeks—­“I do not see any one,” he said.

“So I told this gentleman,” replied the servant, “but he insists in such an extraordinary manner—­”

“In an extraordinary manner?”

“Yes, sir; as if he had something very serious to communicate.”

“Something serious—­aha!  Then let him in.”  Camors rose and paced the chamber, a smile of bitter mockery wreathing his lips.  “And must I now kill him?” he muttered between his teeth.

Lescande entered, and his first act dissipated the apprehension his conduct had caused.  He rushed to the young Count and seized him by both hands, while Camors remarked that his face was troubled and his lips trembled.  “Sit down and be calm,” he said.

“My friend,” said the other, after a pause, “I come late to see you, for which I crave pardon; but—­I am myself so miserable!  See, I am in mourning!”

Camors felt a chill run to his very marrow.  “In mourning! and why?” he asked, mechanically.

“Juliette is dead!” sobbed Lescande, and covered his eyes with his great hands.

“Great God!” cried Camors in a hollow voice.  He listened a moment to Lescande’s bitter sobs, then made a movement to take his hand, but dared not do it.  “Great God! is it possible?” he repeated.

“It was so sudden!” sobbed Lescande, brokenly.  “It seems like a dream—­a frightful dream!  You know the last time you visited us she was not well.  You remember I told you she had wept all day.  Poor child!  The morning of my return she was seized with congestion—­of the lungs—­of the brain—­I don’t know!—­but she is dead!  And so good!—­so gentle, so loving! to the last moment!  Oh, my friend! my friend!  A few moments before she died, she called me to her side.  ‘Oh, I love you so!  I love you so!’ she said.  ’I never loved any but you—­you only!  Pardon me!—­oh, pardon me!’ Pardon her, poor child!  My God, for what? for dying?—­for she never gave me a moment’s grief before in this world.  Oh, God of mercy!”