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Updated: June 11, 2025
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.
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.
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 stepped into his carriage and departed, after receiving from his wife an embrace more fervent than usual. The dinner was gay. In the atmosphere was that subtle suggestion of coming danger of which both Camors and Madame Lescande felt the exhilarating influence.
"Good heavens! my friend," laughed Lescande, "and that suffices you for happiness?" "That and the principles of 'eighty-nine," replied Camors, lighting a fresh cigar from the old one. Here their dialogue was broken by the fresh voice of a woman calling from the blinds of the balcony "Is that you, Theodore?"
Lescande departed, and the young Count remained immovable, with his features convulsed and his eyes fixed on vacancy. This moment decided his whole future. Sometimes a man feels a sudden, unaccountable impulse to smother in himself all human love and sympathy.
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.
Toward the close of his college course, he became particularly attached to a poor bursar, by name Lescande, who excelled in mathematics, but who was very ungraceful, awkwardly shy and timid, with a painful sensitiveness to the peculiarities of his person.
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.
If there were no morals and no remorse, French people would perhaps be happier. But unfortunately it happens that a young woman, who believes in little, like Madame Lescande, and a young man who believes in nothing, like M. de Camors, can not have the pleasures of an independent code of morals without suffering cruelly afterward.
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