He lived upon them as he had lived upon the tradesmen who furnished his supplies.  Borrowing from one louis up to twenty-five, from anybody who would lend to him, he never pretended to pay them.  Constantly betting, no one ever saw him pay a wager.  He piloted all the raw young men who fell into his hands, and utilized, in rendering shameful services, an experience which had cost him two hundred thousand francs; he was half courtier, half adventurer.

He was not banished, but was made to cruelly expiate the favor of being tolerated.  No one had the least regard for his feelings, or hesitated to tell him to his face what was thought of his unprincipled conduct.

Thus, when alone in his little den, he would give way to fits of violent rage.  He had not yet reached a state of callousness to be able to endure these humiliations without the keenest torture to his false pride and vanity.

Envy and covetousness had long since stifled every sentiment of honor and self-respect in his base heart.  For a few years of opulence he was ready to commit any crime.

And, though he did not commit a crime, he came very near it, and was the principal in a disgraceful affair of swindling and extortion, which raised such an outcry against him that he was obliged to leave Paris.

Count de Commarin, an old friend of his father, hushed up the matter, and furnished him with money to take him to England.

And how did he manage to live in London?

The detectives of the most corrupt capital in existence were the only people who knew his means of support.

Descending to the last stages of vice, the Marquis of Clameran finally found his level in a society composed of shameless women and gamblers.

Compelled to quit London, he travelled over Europe, with no other capital than his knavish audacity, deep depravity, and his skill at cards.

Finally, in 1865, he had a run of good luck at Homburg, and returned to Paris, where he imagined himself entirely forgotten.

Eighteen years had passed since he left Paris.

The first step which he took on his return, before even settling himself in Paris, was to make a visit to his old home.

Not that he had any relative or friend in that part of the country, from whom he could expect any assistance; but he remembered the old manor, which his notary had been unable to sell.

He thought that perhaps by this time a purchaser had appeared, and he determined to go himself and ascertain how much he should receive for this old chateau, which had cost one hundred thousand francs in the building.

On a beautiful October evening he reached Tarascon, and there learned that he was still the owner of the chateau of Clameran.  The next morning, he set out on foot to visit the paternal home, which he had not seen for twenty-five years.

Everything was so changed that he scarcely recognized this country, where he had been born, and passed his youth.