dly
along the Champs Elysees. The usual calm of his manner had vanished, and
the generally calm expression of his features was entirely absent. As he
walked, he talked to himself, and gesticulated.

"And this is what we call being a man of the world. We think ourselves
true philosophers, and a look from a pair of beautiful, pleading eyes
scatters all our theories to the winds."

He had loved Sabine upon the day on which he had asked for her hand,
but not so fondly as upon this day when he had learned that she could no
longer be his wife, for, from the moment he had made this discovery, she
seemed to him more gifted and fascinating than ever. No one could have
believed that he, the idol of society, the petted darling of the women,
and the successful rival of the men, could have been refused by the
young girl to whom he had offered his hand.

"Yes," murmured he with a sigh, "for she is just the companion for life
that I longed for. Where could I find so intelligent an intellect and
so pure a mind, united with such radiant beauty, so different from the
women of society, who live but for dress and gossip. Has Sabine anything
in common with those giddy girls who look upon life as a perpetual
value, and who take a husband as they do a partner, because they cannot
dance without one? How her face lighted up as she spoke of him, and how
thoroughly she puts faith in him! The end of it all is that I shall die
a bachelor. In my old age I will take to the pleasures of the table, for
an excellent authority declares that a man can enjoy his four meals a
day with comfort. Well, that is something to look forward to certainly,
and it will not impair my digestion if my heirs and expectants come and
squabble round my armchair. Ah," he added, with a deep sigh, "my life
has been a failure."

M. de Breulh-Faverlay was a very different type of man to that which
both his friends and his enemies popularly supposed him to be. Upon the
death of his uncle, he had plunged into the frivolous vortex of Parisian
dissipation, but of this he had soon wearied.

All that he had cared for was to see the doings of his racehorse
chronicled in the sporting journals, and occasionally to expend a few
thousand francs in presents of jewelry to some fashionable actress. But
he had secretly longed for some more honorable manner of fulfilling his
duties in life, and he had determined that before his marriage he would
sell his stud and break with his old associat