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Updated: June 11, 2025
Notwithstanding Camors's unwillingness, Lescande detained him until he had extorted a promise to come and dine with them that is, with him, his wife, and his mother-in-law, Madame Mursois on the following Tuesday. This acceptance left a cloud on the spirit of Camors until the appointed day. Besides abhorring family dinners, he objected to being reminded of the scene of the balcony.
It was now May, and at the races of La Marche to take place the following Sunday Camors was to be one of the riders. Madame Mursois and her daughter prevailed upon Lescande to take them, while Camors completed their happiness by admitting them to the weighing-stand.
Madame Lescande, who had listened, motionless, and pale as marble, remained in the same lifeless attitude, her eyes fixed, her hands clenched yearning from the depths of her heart that death would summon her. Suddenly a singular noise, seeming to come from the next room, struck her ear. It was only a convulsive sob, or violent and smothered laughter.
Madame Lescande reassured herself more and more; and feeling it unnecessary to be on her guard, as at first, thought she might permit herself a little levity. No woman is flattered at being loved only as a sister. Camors, a little disquieted by the course things were taking, made some slight effort to divert it.
So he was not in the most agreeable frame of mind when he stepped out of his dog-cart, that Tuesday evening, before the little villa of the Avenue Maillot. At his reception by Madame Lescande and her mother he took heart a little. They appeared to him what they were, two honest-hearted women, surrounded by luxury and elegance.
"She is there, my dear friend," answered Lescande, in a low voice and he pointed to the closed shutters of a large window of a balcony surmounting the veranda. "She is there; and this is our son." Camors let his hand pass listlessly over the child's hair. "The deuce!" he said; "but you have not wasted time. And you are happy, my good fellow?"
Once master of the holy truth, you may be sure, dear old Lescande, I shall serve it unto death with my tongue, with my pen, and with my sword!" Such sentiments as these, pronounced with sincere emotion and accompanied by a warm clasp of the hand, drew tears from the old Lescande, otherwise called Wolfhead.
The whole evening he scattered around the mother the social epigrams intended to dazzle the daughter; Lescande meanwhile sitting with his mouth open, delighted with the success of his old schoolfellow. Next afternoon, Camors, returning from his ride in the Bois, by chance passed the Avenue Maillot.
Since she patronizes the turf and subscribes for 'The Sport', she says to me, 'Your friend's horse has won again'; and in our family circle we rejoice over your triumphs." A flush tinged the cheek of Camors as he answered, quietly, "You are really too good." They walked a moment in silence over the gravel path bordered by grass, before Lescande spoke again.
He showed the note, and unfolded his plans to Camors. "This is the only ambition I have, or which I can have," added Lescande. "You are different. You are born for great things." "Listen, my old Lescande," replied Camors, who had just passed his rhetoric examination in triumph. "I do not know but that my destiny may be ordinary; but I am sure my heart can never be.
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