The moral theories which this letter advanced were not new to him.

They were a part of the very atmosphere around him; he had often revolved them in his feverish brain; yet, never before had they appeared to him in the condensed form of a dogma, with the clear precision of a practical code; nor as now, with the authorization of such a voice and of such an example.
One incident gave powerful aid in confirming the impression of these last pages on his mind.

Eight days after his father's death, he was reclining on the lounge in his smoking-room, his face dark as night and as his thoughts, when a servant entered and handed him a card.

He took it listlessly, and read "Lescande, architect." Two red spots rose to his pale cheeks--"I do not see any one," he said.
"So I told this gentleman," replied the servant, "but he insists in such an extraordinary manner--" "In an extraordinary manner ?" "Yes, sir; as if he had something very serious to communicate." "Something serious--aha! Then let him in." Camors rose and paced the chamber, a smile of bitter mockery wreathing his lips.

"And must I now kill him ?" he muttered between his teeth.
Lescande entered, and his first act dissipated the apprehension his conduct had caused.