Then he smiled bitterly, seized one of the pistols with a firm hand and pressed it to his temple.
A shot resounded through the house; the fall of a heavy body shook the 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.