astonished him. Seeing that it was daybreak, he folded in some haste the
pages he had just finished, pressed his seal upon the envelope, and
addressed it, "For the Comte Louis de Camors." Then he rose.

M. de Camors was a great lover of art, and had carefully preserved a
magnificent ivory carving of the sixteenth century, which had belonged to
his wife. It was a Christ the pallid white relieved by a medallion of
dark velvet.

His eye, meeting this pale, sad image, was attracted to it for a moment
with strange fascination. Then he smiled bitterly, seized one of the
pistols with a firm hand and pressed it to his temple.

A shot resounded through the house; the fall of a heavy body shook the
floor-fragments of brains strewed the carpet. The Comte de Camors had
plunged into eternity!

His last will was clenched in his hand.

To whom was this document addressed? Upon what kind of soil will these
seeds fall?

At this time Louis de Camors was twenty-seven years old. His mother had
died young. It did not appear that she had been particularly happy with
her husband; and her son barely remembered her as a young woman, pretty
and pale, and frequently weeping, who used to sing him to sleep in a low,
sweet voice. He had been brought up chiefly by his father's mistress, who
was known as the Vicomtesse d'Oilly, a widow, and a rather good sort of
woman. Her natural sensibility, and the laxity of morals then reigning at
Paris, permitted her to occupy herself at the same time with the
happiness of the father and the education of the son. When the father
deserted her after a time, he left her the child, to comfort her somewhat
by this mark of confidence and affection. She took him out three times a
week; she dressed him and combed him; she fondled him and took him with
her to church, and made him play with a handsome Spaniard, who had been
for some time her secretary. Besides, she neglected no opportunity of
inculcating precepts of sound morality. Thus the child, being surprised
at seeing her one evening press a kiss upon the forehead of her
secretary, cried out, with the blunt candor of his age:

"Why, Madame, do you kiss a gentleman who is not your husband?"

"Because, my dear," replied the Countess, "our good Lord commands us to
be charitable and affectionate to the poor, the infirm, and the exile;
and Monsieur Perez is an exile."

Louis de Camors merited better care, for he was a generous-hearted child;
and his comrades of t