floor-fragments of brains strewed the carpet. The Comte de Camors had
plunged into eternity!

His last will was clenched in his hand.

To whom was this document addressed? Upon what kind of soil will these
seeds fall?

At this time Louis de Camors was twenty-seven years old. His mother had
died young. It did not appear that she had been particularly happy with
her husband; and her son barely remembered her as a young woman, pretty
and pale, and frequently weeping, who used to sing him to sleep in a low,
sweet voice. He had been brought up chiefly by his father's mistress,
who was known as the Vicomtesse d'Oilly, a widow, and a rather good sort
of woman. Her natural sensibility, and the laxity of morals then
reigning at Paris, permitted her to occupy herself at the same time with
the happiness of the father and the education of the son. When the
father deserted her after a time, he left her the child, to comfort her
somewhat by this mark of confidence and affection. She took him out
three times a week; she dressed him and combed him; she fondled him and
took him with her to church, and made him play with a handsome Spaniard,
who had been for some time her secretary. Besides, she neglected no
opportunity of inculcating precepts of sound morality. Thus the child,
being surprised at seeing her one evening press a kiss upon the forehead
of her secretary, cried out, with the blunt candor of his age:

"Why, Madame, do you kiss a gentleman who is not your husband?"

"Because, my dear," replied the Countess, "our good Lord commands us to
be charitable and affectionate to the poor, the infirm, and the exile;