he was obliged to leave Paris.

Count de Commarin, an old friend of his father, hushed up the matter,
and furnished him with money to take him to England.

And how did he manage to live in London?

The detectives of the most corrupt capital in existence were the only
people who knew his means of support.

Descending to the last stages of vice, the Marquis of Clameran finally
found his level in a society composed of shameless women and gamblers.

Compelled to quit London, he travelled over Europe, with no other
capital than his knavish audacity, deep depravity, and his skill at
cards.

Finally, in 1865, he had a run of good luck at Homburg, and returned to
Paris, where he imagined himself entirely forgotten.

Eighteen years had passed since he left Paris.

The first step which he took on his return, before even settling himself
in Paris, was to make a visit to his old home.

Not that he had any relative or friend in that part of the country, from
whom he could expect any assistance; but he remembered the old manor,
which his notary had been unable to sell.

He thought that perhaps by this time a purchaser had appeared, and he
determined to go himself and ascertain how much he should receive for
this old chateau, which had cost one hundred thousand francs in the
building.

On a beautiful October evening he reached Tarascon, and there learned
that he was still the owner of the chateau of Clameran. The next
morning, he set out on foot to visit the paternal home, which he had not
seen for twenty-five years.

Everything was so changed that he scarcely recognized this country,
where he had been born, and passed his youth.

Yet the impression was so strong, that this man, tried by such varied,
strange adventures, for a moment felt like retracing his steps.

He only continued his road because a secret, hopeful voice cried in him,
"Onward, onward!"--as if, at the end of the journey, was to be found a
new life and the long-wished-for good fortune.

As Louis advanced, the changes appeared less striking; he began to be
familiar with the ground.

Soon, through the trees, he distinguished the village steeple, then the
village itself, built upon the gentle rising of a hill, crowned by a
wood of olive-trees.

He recognized the first houses he saw: the farrier's shed covered with
ivy, the old parsonage, and farther on the village tavern, where he and
Gaston used to play billiards.

In spite of what he called his sc