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Updated: June 11, 2025
The same evening that M. de Camors, the elder, returned to his home bent on suicide, his son, passing up the Avenue Maillot, was stopped by Lescande on the threshold of his villa. "My friend," said the latter, "as you are here you can do me a great favor. A telegram calls me suddenly to Melun I must go on the instant. The ladies will be so lonely, pray stay and dine with them!
Consequently, it seemed a little strange to him that the simple mother of the simple wife of simple Lescande should be able to bear his radiance with such calmness; and this brought him out of his premeditated reserve. He took the trouble to be irresistible not to Madame Lescande, to whom he was studiously respectful but to Madame Mursois.
After his death she lived with her mother in very straitened circumstances; and Lescande, on occasion of his last visit, found her with soiled cuffs. Immediately after he received the following note: "Pardon me, dear cousin! Pardon my not wearing white cuffs. But I must tell you that we can change our cuffs my mother and I only three times a week. As to her, one would never discover it.
Still it was a providential thing for him that she was poor, otherwise he never should have dared to aspire to her. It was a sad occurrence that had first thrown Lescande with his cousin the loss of her father, who was chief of one of the Departments of State.
His early intimacy with Lescande had always connected a peculiar interest with his name: and they knew the names of his horses most likely knew the names of his mistresses. So it required all their natural tact to conceal from their guest the flutter of their nerves caused by his sacred presence; but they did succeed, and so well that Camors was slightly piqued.
Lescande, however, whose memory seemed better, felt his heart leap with joy at the majestic appearance of the young cavalier who approached him. He made a movement to rush forward; a smile covered his good-natured face, but it ended in a grimace. Evidently he had been forgotten.
Camors felt a chill run to his very marrow. "In mourning! and why?" he asked, mechanically. "Juliette is dead!" sobbed Lescande, and covered his eyes with his great hands. "Great God!" cried Camors in a hollow voice. He listened a moment to Lescande's bitter sobs, then made a movement to take his hand, but dared not do it. "Great God! is it possible?" he repeated.
The same evening that M. de Camors, the elder, returned to his home bent on suicide, his son, passing up the Avenue Maillot, was stopped by Lescande on the threshold of his villa. "My friend," said the latter, "as you are here you can do me a great favor. A telegram calls me suddenly to Melun I must go on the instant. The ladies will be so lonely, pray stay and dine with them!
"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?"
At the instant she observed Camors whom the interest of the moment had withdrawn from his concealment gave a startled cry, gathered up her skirts, and retired within the room. Since leaving college up to this hour, Louis de Camors had never formed any great opinion of the Juliet who had taken Lescande as her Romeo.
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