The horses stamped
in the stable and the rattling of their halter chains against the bars
of the manger could be distinctly heard. In the coach-house the men were
putting away for the night the carriage, always kept ready throughout
the evening, in case the count should wish to go out.
Albert was reminded by these surroundings, of the magnificence of his
past life. He sighed deeply.
"Must I, then, lose all this?" he murmured. "I can scarcely, even for
myself, abandon so much splendour without regret; and thinking of
Claire makes it hard indeed. Have I not dreamed of a life of exceptional
happiness for her, a result almost impossible to realise without
wealth?"
Midnight sounded from the neighbouring church of St. Clotilde, and as
the night was chilly, he closed the window, and sat down near the fire,
which he stirred. In the hope of obtaining a respite from his
thoughts, he took up the evening paper, in which was an account of the
assassination at La Jonchere; but he found it impossible to read: the
lines danced before his eyes. Then he thought of writing to Claire. He
sat down at his desk, and wrote, "My dearly loved Claire," but he could
go no further; his distracted brain could not furnish him with a single
sentence.
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