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Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face, was

cruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking

quietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. Once again

he touched him on the breast, as though his finger were the fine

point of a small sword, with which, in delicate finesse, he ran

him through the body, and said,

"My friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under which I

have lived."

When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff, and

put his box in his pocket.

"Better to be a rational creature," he added then, after ringing

a small bell on the table, "and accept your natural destiny. But

you are lost, Monsieur Charles, I see."

"This property and France are lost to me," said the nephew,

sadly; "I renounce them."

"Are they both yours to renounce? France may be, but is the

property? It is scarcely worth mentioning; but, is it yet?"

"I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If it

passed to me from you, to-morrow--"