, 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