The paper was old and yellow.

It was the fly-leaf torn out of a little book, and on it was written in black chalk, the words-- "_Souvenez-vous du Sauveur._" (Remember the Saviour.) He turned it over, he turned it back again; there was no other mark; there was nothing more; and Monsieur the Viscount did not conceal from himself that he was disappointed.

How could it be otherwise?
He had been bred in ease and luxury, and surrounded with everything that could make life beautiful; while ugliness, and want, and sickness, and all that make life miserable, had been kept, as far as they can be kept, from the precincts of the beautiful chateau which was his home.
What were the _consolations_ of religion to him?
They are offered to those (and to those only) who need them.

They were to Monsieur the Viscount what the Crucified Christ was to the Greeks of old--foolishness.
He put the paper in his pocket and lay down again, feeling it the crowning disappointment of what he had lately suffered.

Presently, Antoine came with some food; it was not dainty, but Monsieur the Viscount devoured it like a famished hound, and then made inquiries as to how he came and how long he had been there.