It was a fortnight after the events we have narrated.

In a very handsome apartment on Rue de la ChaussÉe-d'Antin, a young man attired in a superb robe de chambre was strolling listlessly from one room to another, smoking a cigarette.

This young man was the Vicomte de Sommerston. The descendant of a very wealthy Irish family, Edward de Sommerston was born in France and had never chosen to visit the home of his ancestors. He had come into possession of an income of eighty thousand francs at the age of twenty-one, and had immediately plunged into the life of pleasure, dissipation, and debauchery which ages men so rapidly.

He was tall, well built, handsome, and rich—this was twice more than enough to kill in ten years a man who was unable to resist his passions. The viscount was now twenty-nine; he was not dead yet, but he was not much better than that; he had not only used, but abused everything. The list of his mistresses was enormously long, especially as there were many of them whom he had known no more than a week, as he was an essentially fickle and capricious youth. The woman he adored to-day was an object of indifference to him to-morrow. Unluckily for him, he had never fallen in with any cruel charmers, his reputation as a rake and mauvais sujet being, on the contrary, a powerful recommendation with the ladies to whom he addressed his homage.

Edward had run through the half of his fortune; he had enough remaining to enable him to live comfortably, if he had known how to make a wise use of it; but he did not know how to do anything, even to amuse himself: everything was a burden and a bore to him. He was no longer capable of loving; he had ruined his stomach by flooding it with champagne and malvoisie; he still gambled from time to time, but without enjoyment unless luck was exceedingly unfavorable to him; when he lost heavily, he experienced a sort of excitement which brought a little life to his pallid, wasted face.

A single passion retained its power over him: he still smoked. It was impossible to meet him without a cigarette in his mouth; and that was followed by another and another and another; wherever he might be, at home or elsewhere, he smoked continually; he could not do without it, he said. He owed that lamentable habit to the foolish good nature of those ladies who allowed him to smoke in their rooms, and sometimes smoked with him. What do you think about the fair sex smoking?

To no purpose had the doctors told the viscount:

"You make a mistake to smoke so much; it's injuring your health; you cough constantly, your lungs are weak, and you'll dry them up completely by smoking as you do; you'll go into a consumption."

These warnings, instead of being acted upon, had produced the opposite effect on the young man, who insisted that he knew better than the doctors.

"Bah!" he said to himself; "they tell me not to smoke. Well! I'll smoke more than ever, to let them see how much I think of their advice."

In fact, the number of cigarettes he smoked in a day reached such a fabulous figure, that his valet's sole occupation was to make them for his master.

From time to time, Edward had travelled, hoping to find new sensations amid new scenes. He had visited Switzerland, Spain, Italy, and England; but, unluckily, the man who can scatter gold along his path meets with no obstacles to his desires in any country; women are coquettish, men are selfish, innkeepers have an eye to the main chance, servants are flatterers, everywhere. In Spain, thanks to the national jealousy, the viscount had fought several duels; but as he handled both sword and pistol with skill, he was always victorious, which fact afforded him no pleasure at all.

Once, as he was travelling in Switzerland, and trying to climb some glacier, he fell over a precipice, and lay there nearly six hours before he was rescued by guides, by means of rope ladders. He was half frozen, but well content, and he remembered that day as one of the pleasantest during his travels.

He had returned to Paris, after a trip to Italy, only three weeks before we first meet him strolling about his apartments, smoking cigarettes, which he rarely finished, and followed at a distance by his valet, LÉpinette, preparing others. Suddenly he halted in the middle of his salon, and asked:

"What time is it, LÉpinette?"

"Nearly three o'clock, monsieur le vicomte."

"Really? Give me a cigarette."

"Here it is, monsieur."

"I will finish dressing.—What in the devil am I going to do to-day, LÉpinette? Do you know?"

"I think that monsieur told three of his friends, Messieurs Florville, Dumarsey, and Lamberlong, to call for him to ride in the Bois."

"Ah, yes! you are right. Yes, those gentlemen were to call for me.—This one isn't well made; give me another."

"Here is one, monsieur."

"To ride in the Bois—always the same thing; it's horribly monotonous.—LÉpinette, you must find something to amuse me."

"I should like nothing better; but monsieur le vicomte is so exacting! Things that would delight other gentlemen are indifferent to him, or displease him."

"That is true; I am hard to amuse. I resemble Louis XIV in that. I hoped to find something new when I came back to Paris.—This one draws badly; give me another."

"Here is one, monsieur."

"But no—nothing new or exciting!"

"There are some very pretty women in the quarter, monsieur."

"Bah! according to your taste, not mine!—But don't I hear horses in the courtyard?"

"Yes, monsieur; they are your friends, who have called for monsieur le vicomte, no doubt."

"Bigre! and I am not dressed! Never mind! they can wait.—Give me a cigarette."