“Yes, General, a little property which belonged to my mother; a small manor, with a little land round it, called Reuilly.”

“Reuilly!  Not two steps from Des Rameures!  Certainly—­certainly!  Well, that is one foot in the stirrup.”

“But then there is one difficulty; I am obliged to sell it.”

“The devil!  And why?”

“It is all that is left to me, and it only brings me eleven thousand francs a year; and to embark in business I need capital—­a beginning.  I prefer not to borrow.”

The General rose, and once more his military tramp shook the gallery.  Then he threw himself back on the sofa.

“You must not sell that property!  I owe you nothing, ’tis true, but I have an affection for you.  You refuse to be my adopted son.  Well, I regret this, and must have recourse to other projects to aid you.  I warn you I shall try other projects.  You must not sell your lands if you wish to become a deputy, for the country people—­especially those of Des Rameures—­will not hear of it.  Meantime you will need funds.  Permit me to offer you three hundred thousand francs.  You may return them when you can, without interest, and if you never return them you will confer a very great favor upon me.”

“But in truth, General—­”

“Come, come!  Accept it as from a relative—­from a friend—­from your father’s friend—­on any ground you please, so you accept.  If not, you will wound me seriously.”

Camors rose, took the General’s hand, and pressing it with emotion, said, briefly: 

“I accept, sir.  I thank you!”

The General sprang up at these words like a furious lion, his moustache bristling, his nostrils dilating, his chest heaving.  Staring at the young Count with real ferocity, he suddenly drew him to his breast and embraced him with great fervor.  Then he strode to the door with his usual solemnity, and quickly brushing a tear from his cheek, left the room.

The General was a good man; but, like many good people, he had not been happy.  You might smile at his oddities:  you never could reproach him with vices.

He was a small man, but he had a great soul.  Timid at heart, especially with women, he was delicate, passionate, and chaste.  He had loved but little, and never had been loved at all.  He declared that he had retired from all friendship with women, because of a wrong that he had suffered.  At forty years of age he had married the daughter of a poor colonel who had been killed by the enemy.  Not long after, his wife had deceived him with one of his aides-de-camp.

The treachery was revealed to him by a rival, who played on this occasion the infamous role of Iago.  Campvallon laid aside his starred epaulettes, and in two successive duels, still remembered in Africa, killed on two successive days the guilty one and his betrayer.  His wife died shortly after, and he was left more lonely than ever.  He was not the man to console himself with venal love; a gross remark made him blush; the corps de ballet inspired him with terror.  He did not dare to avow it, but the dream of his old age, with his fierce moustache and his grim countenance, was the devoted love of some young girl, at whose feet he might pour out, without shame, without distrust even, all the tenderness of his simple and heroic heart.