Half an hour later Louis de Camors, the Prince d’Errol, and a half-dozen guests of both sexes, took possession of an apartment, the closed doors of which we must respect. Next morning, at gray dawn, the party was about to disperse; and at the moment a ragpicker, with a gray beard, was wandering up and down before the restaurant, raking with his hook in the refuse that awaited the public sweepers. In closing his purse, with an unsteady hand, Camors let fall a shining louis d’or, which rolled into the mud on the sidewalk. The ragpicker looked up with a timid smile. “Ah! Monsieur,” he said, “what falls into the trench should belong to the soldier.” “Pick it up with your teeth, then,” answered Camors, laughing, “and it is yours.” The man hesitated, flushed under his sunburned cheeks, and threw a look of deadly hatred upon the laughing group round him. Then he knelt, buried his chest in the mire, and sprang up next moment with the coin clenched between his sharp white teeth. The spectators applauded. The chiffonnier smiled a dark smile, and turned away. “Hello, my friend!” cried Camors, touching his arm, “would you like to earn five Louis? If so, give me a knock-down blow. That will give you pleasure and do me good.” The man turned, looked him steadily in the eye, then suddenly dealt him such a blow in the face that he reeled against the opposite wall. The young men standing by made a movement to fall upon the graybeard. “Let no one harm him!” cried Camors. “Here, my man, are your hundred francs.” “Keep them,” replied the other, “I am paid;” and walked away. “Bravo, Belisarius!” laughed Camors. “Faith, gentlemen, I do not know whether you agree with me, but I am really charmed with this little episode. I must go dream upon it. By-bye, young ladies! Good-day, Prince!” An early cab was passing, he jumped in, and was driven rapidly to his hotel, on the Rue Babet-de-Jouy. The door of the courtyard was open, but being still under the influence of the wine he had drunk, he failed to notice a confused group of servants and neighbors standing before the stable-doors. Upon seeing him, these people became suddenly silent, and exchanged looks of sympathy and compassion. Camors occupied the second floor of the hotel; and ascending the stairs, found himself suddenly facing his father’s valet. The man was very pale, and held a sealed paper, which he extended with a trembling hand. “What is it, Joseph?” asked Camors. “A letter which--which Monsieur le Comte wrote for you before he left.” “Before he left! my father is gone, then? But--where--how? What, the devil! why do you weep?” Unable to speak, the servant handed him the paper. Camors seized it and tore it open. “Good God! there is blood! what is this!” He read the first words--“My son, life is a burden to me. I leave it--” and fell fainting to the floor. The poor lad loved his father, notwithstanding the past. They carried him to his chamber. CHAPTER III. DEBRIS FROM THE REVOLUTION