and sobbed aloud.
Camors still stood, his back against the mantelpiece, his eyes fixed,
wrapped in his own thoughts. He wished in all sincerity of heart that he
could have awakened the dead and restored him to life. He had sworn to
deliver himself up to him without defence, if ever the old man demanded
it of him for forgotten favors, betrayed friendship, and violated honor.
Now he had killed him. If he had not slain him with his own hand, the
crime was still there, in its most hideous form. He saw it before him,
he inhaled its odor--he breathed its blood. An uneasy glance of the
Marquise recalled him to himself and he approached her. They then
conversed together in whispers, and he hastily explained to her the line
of conduct she should adopt.

She must summon the servants, say the General had been taken suddenly
ill, and that on entering her room he had been seized by an apoplectic
stroke.

It was with some effort that she understood she was to wait long enough
before giving the alarm to give Camors sufficient time to escape; and
until then she was to remain in this frightful tete-a-tete, alone with
the dead.

He pitied her, and decided on leaving the hotel by the apartment of M.
de Campvallon, which had a private entrance on the street.

The Marquise immediately rang violently several times, and Camors did
not retire till he heard the sound of hastening feet on the stairs. The
apartment of the General communicated with that of his wife by a short
gallery. There was a suite of apartments--first a study, then his
sleeping-room. M. de Camors traversed this room with feelings we shall
not attempt to describe and gained the street. The surgeon testified
that the General had died from the rupture of a vessel in the heart. Two
days after the interment took place, at which M. de Camors attended. The
same evening he left Paris to join his wife, who had gone to Reuilly the
preceding week.

CHAPTER XXI. THE FEATHER IN THE BALANCE

One of the sweetest sensations in the world is that of a man who has
just escaped the fantastic terrors of night mare; and who, awaking, his
fore head bathed with icy sweat, says to himself, "It was only a dream!"
This was, in some degree, the impression which Camors felt on awaking,
the morning after his arrival at Reuilly, when his first glance fell on
the sunlight streaming over the foliage, and when he heard beneath
his window the joyous laugh of his little son. He, however, was not