I
prefer not to borrow."

The General rose, and once more his military tramp shook the gallery.
Then he threw himself back on the sofa.

"You must not sell that property! I owe you nothing, 'tis true, but
I have an affection for you. You refuse to be my adopted son. Well, I
regret this, and must have recourse to other projects to aid you. I warn
you I shall try other projects. You must not sell your lands if you
wish to become a deputy, for the country people--especially those of Des
Rameures--will not hear of it. Meantime you will need funds. Permit me
to offer you three hundred thousand francs. You may return them when you
can, without interest, and if you never return them you will confer a
very great favor upon me."

"But in truth, General--"

"Come, come! Accept it as from a relative--from a friend--from your
father's friend--on any ground you please, so you accept. If not, you
will wound me seriously."

Camors rose, took the General's hand, and pressing it with emotion,
said, briefly:

"I accept, sir. I thank you!"

The General sprang up at these words like a furious lion, his moustache
bristling, his nostrils dilating, his chest heaving. Staring at the
young Count with real ferocity, he suddenly drew him to his breast and
embraced him with great fervor. Then he strode to the door with his
usual solemnity, and quickly brushing a tear from his cheek, left the
room.

The General was a good man; but, like many good people, he had not been
happy. You might smile at his oddities: you never could reproach him
with vices.

He was a small man, but he had a great soul. Timid at heart, especially
with women, he was delicate, passionate, and chaste. He had loved but
little, and never had been loved at all. He declared that he had retired
from all friendship with women, because of a wrong that he had suffered.
At forty years of age he had married the daughter of a poor colonel who
had been killed by the enemy. Not long after, his wife had deceived him
with one of his aides-de-camp.

The treachery was revealed to him by a rival, who played on this
occasion the infamous role of Iago. Campvallon laid aside his starred
epaulettes, and in two successive duels, still remembered in Africa,
killed on two successive days the guilty one and his betrayer. His wife
died shortly after, and he was left more lonely than ever. He was not
the man to console himself with venal love; a gross remark made him
blush; the corps de b