"Is the Count still living?" asked the Ambassador, "for since the
revolution of July he has disappeared from the political stage."

"Do you remember, Monsieur de Lora," said the Consul-General, "having
seen me going to the steamboat with----"

"A white-haired man! an old man?" said the painter.

"An old man of forty-five, going in search of health and amusement in
Southern Italy. That old man was my poor friend, my patron, passing
through Genoa to take leave of me and place his will in my hands. He
appoints me his son's guardian. I had no occasion to tell him of
Honorine's wishes."

"Does he suspect himself of murder?" said Mademoiselle des Touches to
the Baron de l'Hostal.

"He suspects the truth," replied the Consul, "and that is what is
killing him. I remained on board the steam packet that was to take him
to Naples till it was out of the roadstead; a small boat brought me
back. We sat for some little time taking leave of each other--for
ever, I fear. God only knows how much we love the confidant of our
love when she who inspired it is no more.

"'That man,' said Octave, 'holds a charm and wears an aureole.' the
Count went to the prow and looked down on the Mediterranean. It
happened to be fine, and, moved no doubt by the spectacle, he spoke
these last words: 'Ought we not, in the interests of human nature, to
inquire what is the irresistible power which leads us to sacrifice an
exquisite creature to the most fugitive of all pleasures, and in spite