a pressing demand for money, his notary replied by a refusal.
“Your lands are all gone,” he wrote; “you now possess nothing but the chateau. It is very valuable, but it is difficult, if not impossible, to find a purchaser of so large an amount of real estate, in its present condition. I will use every effort to make a good sale, and if successful, will inform you of the fact immediately.” Louis was thunderstruck at this final catastrophe, as much surprised as if he could have expected any other result. But what could he do?
Ruined, with nothing to look forward to, the best course was to imitate the large number of poor fools who each year rise up, shine a moment, then suddenly disappear.
But Louis could not renounce this life of ease and pleasure which he had been leading for the last three years. After leaving his fortune on the battle-ground, he was willing to leave the shreds of his honor.
He first lived on the reputation of his dissipated fortune; on the credit remaining to a man who has spent much in a short space of time.
This resource was soon exhausted.
The day came when his creditors seized all they could lay their hands upon, the last remains of his opulence, his carriages, horses, and costly furniture.
He took refuge in a quiet hotel, but he could not keep away from the wealthy set whom he considered his friends.
He lived upon them as he had lived upon the tradesmen who furnished his supplies. Borrowing from one louis up to twenty-five, from anybody who would lend to him, he never pretended to pay them. Constantly betting, no one ever saw him pay a wager. He piloted all the raw young men who fell into his hands, and utilized, in rendering shameful services, an experience which had cost him two hundred thousand francs; he was half courtier, half adventurer.
He was not banished, but was made to cruelly expiate the favor of being tolerated. No one had the least regard for his feelings, or hesitated to tell him to his face what was thought of his unprincipled conduct.
Thus, when alone in his little den, he would give way to fits of violent rage. He had not yet reached a state of callousness to be able to endure these humiliations without the keenest torture to his false pride and vanity.
Envy and covetousness had long since stifled every sentiment of honor and self-respect in his base heart. For a few years of opulence he was ready to commit any crime.
And, though he did not commit a crime, he came very near it, and was the principal in a disgraceful affair of swindling and extortion, which raised such an outcry against him that he was obliged to leave Paris.
Count de Commarin, an old friend of his father, hushed up the matter, and furnished him with money to take him to England.
And how did he manage to live in London?
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.
Yet the impression was so strong, that this man, tried by such varied, strange adventures, for a moment felt like retracing his steps.
He only continued his road because a secret, hopeful voice cried in him, “Onward, onward!”—as if, at the end of the journey, was to be found a new life and the long-wished-for good fortune.
As Louis advanced, the changes appeared less striking; he began to be familiar with the ground.
Soon, through the trees, he distinguished the village steeple, then the village itself, built upon the gentle rising of a hill, crowned by a wood of olive-trees.
He recognized the first houses he saw: the farrier’s shed covered with ivy, the old parsonage, and farther on the village tavern, where he and Gaston used to play billiards.
In spite of what he called his scorn of vulgar prejudices, he felt a thrill of strange emotion as he looked on these once familiar objects.
He could not overcome a feeling of sadness as scenes of the past rose up before him.
How many events had occurred since he last walked along this path, and received a friendly bow and smile from every villager.
Then life appeared to him like a fairy scene, in which his every wish was gratified. And now, he had returned, dishonored, worn out, disgusted with the realities of life, still tasting the bitter dregs of the cup of shame, stigmatized, poverty-stricken, and friendless, with nothing to lose, and nothing to look forward to.
The few villagers whom he met turned and stood gazing after this dust-covered stranger, and wondered who he could be.
Upon reaching St. Jean’s house, he found the door open; he walked into the immense empty kitchen.
He rapped on the table, and was answered by a voice calling out:
“Who is there?”
The next moment a man of about forty years appeared in the doorway, and seemed much surprised at finding a stranger standing in his kitchen.
“What will you have, monsieur?” he inquired.
“Does not St. Jean, the old valet of the Marquis of Clameran, live here?”
“My father died five years ago, monsieur,” replied the man in a sad tone.
This news affected Louis painfully, as if he had expected this old man to restore him some of his lost youth; the last link was gone. He sighed, and, after a silence, said:
“I am the Marquis of Clameran.”
The farmer, at these words, uttered an exclamation of joy. He seized Louis’s hand, and, pressing it with respectful attention, cried:
“You are the marquis! Alas!” he continued,
