There she saw Camors, crouched upon the floor, sobbing furiously and beating his forehead against a chair which he strained in a convulsive embrace.

Her tongue refused its office; she could find no word, but seating herself near him, gave way to her emotion, and wept silently.

He dragged himself nearer, seized the hem of her dress and covered it with kisses; his breast heaved tumultuously, his lips trembled and he gasped the almost inarticulate words, "Pardon! Oh, pardon me!" This was all.

Then he rose suddenly, rushed from the house, and the instant after she heard the rolling of the wheels as his carriage whirled him away.
If there were no morals and no remorse, French people would perhaps be happier.

But unfortunately it happens that a young woman, who believes in little, like Madame Lescande, and a young man who believes in nothing, like M.de Camors, can not have the pleasures of an independent code of morals without suffering cruelly afterward.
A thousand old prejudices, which they think long since buried, start up suddenly in their consciences; and these revived scruples are nearly fatal to them.
Camors rushed toward Paris at the greatest speed of his thoroughbred, Fitz-Aymon, awakening along the route, by his elegance and style, sentiments of envy which would have changed to pity were the wounds of the heart visible.