Feeling her own brain begin to reel, she sprang from the sofa, and rushing to the door, threw it open.  The next apartment was the dining-room, dimly lighted by a hanging lamp.  There she saw Camors, crouched upon the floor, sobbing furiously and beating his forehead against a chair which he strained in a convulsive embrace.  Her tongue refused its office; she could find no word, but seating herself near him, gave way to her emotion, and wept silently.  He dragged himself nearer, seized the hem of her dress and covered it with kisses; his breast heaved tumultuously, his lips trembled and he gasped the almost inarticulate words, “Pardon!  Oh, pardon me!”

This was all.  Then he rose suddenly, rushed from the house, and the instant after she heard the rolling of the wheels as his carriage whirled him away.

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.

A thousand old prejudices, which they think long since buried, start up suddenly in their consciences; and these revived scruples are nearly fatal to them.

Camors rushed toward Paris at the greatest speed of his thoroughbred, Fitz-Aymon, awakening along the route, by his elegance and style, sentiments of envy which would have changed to pity were the wounds of the heart visible.  Bitter weariness, disgust of life and disgust for himself, were no new sensations to this young man; but he never had experienced them in such poignant intensity as at this cursed hour, when flying from the dishonored hearth of the friend of his boyhood.  No action of his life had ever thrown such a flood of light on the depths of his infamy in doing such gross outrage to the friend of his purer days, to the dear confidant of the generous thoughts and proud aspirations of his youth.  He knew he had trampled all these under foot.  Like Macbeth, he had not only murdered one asleep, but had murdered sleep itself.

His reflections became insupportable.  He thought successively of becoming a monk, of enlisting as a soldier, and of getting drunk—­ere he reached the corner of the Rue Royale and the Boulevard.  Chance favored his last design, for as he alighted in front of his club, he found himself face to face with a pale young man, who smiled as he extended his hand.  Camors recognized the Prince d’Errol.

“The deuce!  You here, my Prince!  I thought you in Cairo.”

“I arrived only this morning.”

“Ah, then you are better?—­Your chest?”

“So—­so.”

“Bah! you look perfectly well.  And isn’t Cairo a strange place?”

“Rather; but I really believe Providence has sent you to me.”

“You really think so, my Prince?  But why?”