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.