Monsieur De Camors | Page 5

humble house
with his cousin. He showed the note, and unfolded his plans to Camors.
"This is the only ambition I have, or which I can have," added
Lescande. "You are different. You are born for great things."
"Listen, my old Lescande," replied Camors, who had just passed his
rhetoric examination in triumph. "I do not know but that my destiny
may be ordinary; but I am sure my heart can never be. There I feel
transports--passions, which give me sometimes great joy, sometimes
inexpressible suffering. I burn to discover a world--to save a nation--to
love a queen! I understand nothing but great ambitions and noble
alliances, and as for sentimental love, it troubles me but little. My
activity pants for a nobler and a wider field!
"I intend to attach myself to one of the great social parties, political or
religious, that agitate the world at this era. Which one I know not yet,
for my opinions are not very fixed. But as soon as I leave college I shall
devote myself to seeking the truth. And truth is easily found. I shall
read all the newspapers.
"Besides, Paris is an intellectual highway, so brilliantly lighted it is
only necessary to open one's eyes and have good faith and
independence, to find the true road.
"And I am in excellent case for this, for though born a gentleman, I
have no prejudices. My father, who is himself very enlightened and
very liberal, leaves me free. I have an uncle who is a Republican; an
aunt who is a Legitimist--and what is still more, a saint; and another
uncle who is a Conservative. It is not vanity that leads me to speak of
these things; but only a desire to show you that, having a foot in all
parties, I am quite willing to compare them dispassionately and make a
good choice. Once master of the holy truth, you may be sure, dear old
Lescande, I shall serve it unto death--with my tongue, with my pen, and
with my sword!"

Such sentiments as these, pronounced with sincere emotion and
accompanied by a warm clasp of the hand, drew tears from the old
Lescande, otherwise called Wolfhead.
CHAPTER II
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