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Camors raised his eyes and saw a white hand, resting on the slats of the blind, bathed in sunlight. "That is my wife. Conceal yourself!" cried Lescande, briskly; and he pushed Camors behind a clump of catalpas, as he turned to the balcony and lightly answered: "Yes, my dear; do you wish anything?" "Maxime is with you?" "Yes, mother. I am here," cried the child. "It is a beautiful morning.
He wore a white cravat, spotless as snow; and two triangles of short, thick beard, cut like the boxwood at Versailles, ornamented his cheeks. If Camors saw this personage he did not honor him with the slightest notice. He was, notwithstanding, his former comrade Lescande, who had been lost sight of for several years by his warmest college friend.
Further, when they walked past the judge's stand, Madame Mursois, to whom he gave his arm, had the delight of being escorted in public by a cavalier in an orange jacket and topboots. Lescande and his wife followed in the wake of the radiant mother-in-law, partaking of her ecstasy. These agreeable relations continued for several weeks, without seeming to change their character.
As he abandoned himself to these passionate imaginings, the recollection of young Madame Lescande came back suddenly to his memory. He grew pale in the darkness. At this moment he was passing the edge of a little wood belonging to the Comte de Tecle, of which a portion had recently been cleared. It was not chance alone that had directed the Count's ride to this point.
This was the moment when the ghost of Madame Lescande had risen before him, and he believed he could almost hear her weep. Suddenly this illusion gave place to a strange reality. The voice of a woman plainly called him by name, in accents of distress "Monsieur de Camors!" Stopping his horse on the instant, he felt an icy shudder pass through his frame.
He was nicknamed "Wolfhead," from the refractory nature of his hair; but the elegant Camors stopped the scoffers by protecting the young man with his friendship. Lescande felt this deeply, and adored his friend, to whom he opened the inmost recesses of his heart, letting out some important secrets. He loved a very young girl who was his cousin, but was as poor as himself.
Eight days after his father's death, he was reclining on the lounge in his smoking-room, his face dark as night and as his thoughts, when a servant entered and handed him a card. He took it listlessly, and read" Lescande, architect." Two red spots rose to his pale cheeks "I do not see any one," he said.
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.
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.
He experienced a flash of agreeable surprise on discovering that his friend was more happy in that respect than he had supposed. "I am about to be scolded, my friend," said Lescande, with a hearty laugh, "and you also must stay for your share. You will stay and breakfast with us?" Camors hesitated; then said, hastily, "No, no! Impossible! I have an engagement which I must keep."
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