“Yes, but with your tastes—”
“Well?”
“At all events, you know where to find me. I may count upon you—may I not?”
“You may.”
“Adieu, my friend! I can do you no good now; but I shall see you again—shall I not?”
“Yes—another time.”
Lescande departed, and the young Count remained immovable, with his features convulsed and his eyes fixed on vacancy.
This moment decided his whole future.
Sometimes a man feels a sudden, unaccountable impulse to smother in himself all human love and sympathy.
In the presence of this unhappy man, so unworthily treated, so broken-spirited, so confiding, Camors—if there be any truth in old spiritual laws—should have seen himself guilty of an atrocious act, which should have condemned him to a remorse almost unbearable.