Bitter weariness, disgust of life and disgust for himself, were no new sensations to this young man; but he never had experienced them in such poignant intensity as at this cursed hour, when flying from the dishonored hearth of the friend of his boyhood.

No action of his life had ever thrown such a flood of light on the depths of his infamy in doing such gross outrage to the friend of his purer days, to the dear confidant of the generous thoughts and proud aspirations of his youth.

He knew he had trampled all these under foot.
Like Macbeth, he had not only murdered one asleep, but had murdered sleep itself.
His reflections became insupportable.

He thought successively of becoming a monk, of enlisting as a soldier, and of getting drunk--ere he reached the corner of the Rue Royale and the Boulevard.

Chance favored his last design, for as he alighted in front of his club, he found himself face to face with a pale young man, who smiled as he extended his hand.