FRUIT FROM THE HOTBED OF PARIS

Early one morning, about eight years after these high resolves, Louis de Camors rode out from the ‘porte-cochere’ of the small hotel he had occupied with his father.

Nothing could be gayer than Paris was that morning, at that charming golden hour of the day when the world seems peopled only with good and generous spirits who love one another.  Paris does not pique herself on her generosity; but she still takes to herself at this charming hour an air of innocence, cheerfulness, and amiable cordiality.

The little carts with bells, that pass one another rapidly, make one believe the country is covered with roses.  The cries of old Paris cut with their sharp notes the deep murmur of a great city just awaking.

You see the jolly concierges sweeping the white footpaths; half-dressed merchants taking down their shutters with great noise; and groups of ostlers, in Scotch caps, smoking and fraternizing on the hotel steps.

You hear the questions of the sociable neighborhood; the news proper to awakening; speculations on the weather bandied across from door to door, with much interest.

Young milliners, a little late, walk briskly toward town with elastic step, making now a short pause before a shop just opened; again taking wing like a bee just scenting a flower.

Even the dead in this gay Paris morning seem to go gayly to the cemetery, with their jovial coachmen grinning and nodding as they pass.

Superbly aloof from these agreeable impressions, Louis de Camors, a little pale, with half-closed eyes and a cigar between his teeth, rode into the Rue de Bourgogne at a walk, broke into a canter on the Champs Elysees, and galloped thence to the Bois.  After a brisk run, he returned by chance through the Porte Maillot, then not nearly so thickly inhabited as it is to-day.  Already, however, a few pretty houses, with green lawns in front, peeped out from the bushes of lilac and clematis.  Before the green railings of one of these a gentleman played hoop with a very young, blond-haired child.  His age belonged in that uncertain area which may range from twenty-five to forty.  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.  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, now not more than a couple of feet from him, was passing on, and his handsome countenance gave not the slightest sign of emotion.  Suddenly, without changing a single line of his face, he drew rein, took the cigar from his lips, and said, in a tranquil voice: