e lust to kill, the
damnation and despair! Woe to him whom I hear laugh! And yet . . . he
will be within his rights. Whenever men tire of torturing animals,
nature gives them a cripple or a bastard to play with. And look! I am
calm, my hand no longer shakes."

Victor leaned against the chimney, haggard of face, silent of tongue.

The Chevalier took out a letter and held it close to the candle-light.
He sighed. Victor saw that he was not looking at the letter, but
through it and beyond. Some time passed.

"And, Victor, I was going back to Paris to-morrow, to life and to love.
Within this scented envelope a woman has written the equivalent of 'I
love you!' as only a loving woman can write it. How quickly the candle
would eat it! But shall I destroy it? No. Rather let me keep it to
remind myself what was and what might have been. Far away from here I
shall read it again and again, till it crumbles in my hand and scatters
into dust." He hid the letter in his doublet and drew forth a
miniature. Like a ruddy ember it lay in his hand. "Paris! O prince
of cities, there lies upon your stones the broken cup which held my
youth!" The yellow of the candle and the red of the fire gave a
singularly rich tone to his face, from which the dullness of
intoxication was suddenly gone.

"Paul, you are breaking my heart," cried Victor, choking. His poet's
soul, and only such as his, could comprehend how full was the
Chevalier's cup of misery.

"Only women's hearts break, lad, and then in verse. Shall I weep? No.
Let me laugh; for, my faith, it is laughable. I brought it on myself.
Fate led me to the precipice, and I myself jumped over. Yesterday I
had pride, I was heir to splendid estates, with forty thousand livres
the year to spend. To-night . . . Let me see; the vicomte owes me
fifty pistoles. It will be a start in life . . . And much have I
snuffed besides candles to-night! By all means, let me laugh."

This irony overcame Victor, who sat down, covered his face, and wept
noiselessly.

"You weep? And I . . . I am denied the joy of cursing."

"But what made you speak? In God's name, what possessed you to publish
this misfortune?"

"On my word, Victor, I do not know. Wine, perhaps; perhaps anger,
madness, or what you will. I know only this: I could not help myself.
Poor fool! Yes, I was mad. But he roused within me all the disgust of
life, and it struck me blind. But regret is the cruelest of men