Finis
As the Count of Lormerin finished dressing he cast a parting glance at the large mirror which occupied a whole panel in his dressing-room, and smiled.
He was really a fine-looking man, although quite grey. Tall, slight, elegant, with a small moustache of a doubtful shade that might be called fair, he had a presence, distinction, an aristocratic bearing, a “chic” in short, that indefinable quality that makes a greater difference between two men than the possession of millions of money. He murmured: “Lormerin is still alive!” and entered the big room where his correspondence awaited him.
On his table, where everything had its place—the worktable of a gentleman who never works—some dozen letters were lying beside three papers representing different political opinions. With a single touch he spread the letters out like a gambler giving the choice of a card, and he scrutinised the handwriting, a habit he indulged in every morning, before opening the envelopes.
This was the moment of delightful expectancy, of inquiry and of vague anxiety. What were these sealed, mysterious letters bringing to him? What pleasure, happiness, or sorrow did they contain? He surveyed them with a quick glance, recognised the writing, picked them out, sorted them into two or three bundles according to what he expected from them. Here were the friends; there those that were indifferent; and, farther on, the unknown correspondents. The last always caused him a slight uneasiness. What could they want? What hand had traced those curious characters, full of thought, of promises, or of threats?
That day one letter in particular caught his eye. There was nothing unusual in its appearance, but he looked at it uneasily with a kind of chill at his heart. He thought: “From whom can it be? I certainly know the writing, and yet I can’t identify it.”
He picked it up, holding it gingerly in his fingers, trying to read through the envelope, unable to make up his mind to open it.
Then he smelt it, took up a little magnifying-glass to study the peculiarities of the writing. He felt unnerved: “From whom is it? I know the handwriting very well. I must have read it often, very often. But it must be very, very old. Who the devil can it be from? Pshaw! a request for money.”
He tore open the envelope and read:
“My Dear Friend:
“You must have forgotten me, for we have not met for twenty-five years. I was young: I am old. When I said goodbye I was leaving Paris to follow my husband, my old husband, whom you called ‘my hospital,’ into the provinces. Do you remember? He has been dead five years and now I am returning to Paris to marry my daughter, for I have a daughter, a lovely girl of eighteen, whom you have never seen. I sent you word of her birth, but I am sure you paid little attention to so insignificant an event.
“You, you are still the handsome Lormerin, so I am told. Well, if you still remember little Lise, whom you called Lison, come and dine with her this evening, with the elderly Baroness de Vance, your ever faithful friend, who, full of emotion and very happy, holds out a devoted hand which you may clasp, but no longer kiss, my poor Jaquelet.
Lormerin’s heart began to beat rapidly. He remained sunk in his armchair, the letter on his knees, staring straight in front of him, shrinking from the stab of bitter-sweetness that brought the tears to his eyes!
If he had ever loved any woman in his life, it had
