ured wainscotings, and the heavy draperies.

The flame on the hearth which flickered up at intervals, threw a bright
gleam on two or three pictures of the Spanish school, which were the only
decorations of this sumptuous, but stern-looking apartment.

The Marquise sank as if terrified on a divan near the chimney, and pushed
with her feet two cushions before her, on which Camors half reclined; she
then thrust back the thick braids of her hair, and leaned toward her
lover.

"Do you love me to-day?" she asked.

The soft breath of her voice was passing over the face of Camors, when
the door suddenly opened before them. The General entered. The Marquise
and Camors instantly rose to their feet, and standing side by side,
motionless, gazed upon him. The General paused near the door. As he saw
them a shudder passed over his frame, and his face assumed a livid
pallor. For an instant his eye rested on Camors with a stupefied surprise
and almost bewilderment; then he raised his arms over his head, and his
hands struck together with a sharp sound. At this terrible moment Madame
de Campvallon seized the arm of Camors, and threw him a look so profound,
supplicating, and tragic, that it alarmed him.

He roughly pushed her from him, crossed his arms, and waited the result.

The General walked slowly toward him. Suddenly his face became inflamed
with a purple hue; his lips half opened, as if about to deliver some
deadly insult. He advanced rapidly, his hand raised; but after a few
steps the old man suddenly stopped, beat the air with both hands, as if
seeking some support, then staggered and fell forward, striking his head
against the marble mantelpiece, rolled on the carpet, and remained
motionless. There was an ominous silence. A stifled cry from M. de Camors
broke it. At the same time he threw himself on his knees by the side of
the motionless old man, touched first his hand, then his heart. He saw
that he was dead. A thin thread of blood trickled down his pale forehead
where it had struck the marble; but this was only a slight wound. It was
not that which had killed him. It was the treachery of those two beings
whom he had loved, and who, he believed, loved him. His heart had been
broken by the violence of the surprise, the grief, and the horror.

One look of Camors told Madame de Campvallon she was a widow. She threw
herself on the divan, buried her face in the cushions and sobbed aloud.
Camors still stood, his back against t