AMORS

BOOK 1.

CHAPTER I. "THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH"

Near eleven o'clock, one evening in the month of May, a man about fifty
years of age, well formed, and of noble carriage, stepped from a
coupe in the courtyard of a small hotel in the Rue Barbet-de-Jouy. He
ascended, with the walk of a master, the steps leading to the entrance,
to the hall where several servants awaited him. One of them followed
him into an elegant study on the first floor, which communicated with
a handsome bedroom, separated from it by a curtained arch. The valet
arranged the fire, raised the lamps in both rooms, and was about to
retire, when his master spoke:

"Has my son returned home?"

"No, Monsieur le Comte. Monsieur is not ill?"

"Ill! Why?"

"Because Monsieur le Comte is so pale."

"Ah! It is only a slight cold I have taken this evening on the banks of
the lake."

"Will Monsieur require anything?"

"Nothing," replied the Count briefly, and the servant retired. Left
alone, his master approached a cabinet curiously carved in the Italian
style, and took from it a long flat ebony box.

This contained two pistols. He loaded them with great care, adjusting
the caps by pressing them lightly to the nipple with his thumb. That
done, he lighted a cigar, and for half an hour the muffled beat of his
regular tread sounded on the carpet of the gallery. He finished his
cigar, paused a moment in deep thought, and then entered the adjoining
room, taking the pistols with him.

This room, like the other, was furnished in a style of severe elegance,
relieved by tasteful ornament. It showed some pictures by famous
masters, statues, bronzes, and rare carvings in ivory. The Count threw
a glance of singular interest round the interior of this chamber, which
was his own--on the familiar objects--on the sombre hangings--on the
bed, prepared for sleep. Then he turned toward a table, placed in a
recess of the window, laid the pistols upon it, and dropping his head in
his hands, meditated deeply many minutes. Suddenly he raised his head,
and wrote rapidly as follows:

"TO MY SON:

"Life wearies me, my son, and I shall relinquish it. The true
superiority of man over the inert or passive creatures that surround
him, lies in his power to free himself, at will, from those,
pernicious servitudes which are termed the laws of nature. Man,
if he will it, need not grow old: the lion must. Reflect, my son,
upon this text, for