d--should now
belong to a man whose father's heart I could have plucked out! Ah, I
only wonder I do not go mad when I think of it!"

M. de Saint-Remy continued walking up and down in great agitation, and
mechanically lifted up the curtain which separated the apartment in
which he was from Florestan's private sitting-room, and advanced several
strides into that chamber.

He had disappeared for the moment, when a small door hidden in the
hangings of the wall opened softly, and Madame de Lucenay, wrapped in a
large green cashmere shawl, having a very plain black velvet bonnet on,
entered the salon, which the comte had but that instant quitted.

It is necessary to offer some explanation of this unexpected visit.

Florestan de Saint-Remy on the previous evening made an appointment with
the duchess for the next morning. She having, as we have said, a key of
the little gate in the narrow lane, had, as usual, entered by the
conservatory, relying on finding Florestan on the ground floor boudoir;
but, not finding him there, she believed (as had before occurred) that
the vicomte was engaged in his cabinet.

A secret staircase led from the boudoir to the story above. Madame de
Lucenay went up without hesitation, supposing that M. de Saint-Remy had
given orders, as usual, to be denied to everybody. Unluckily, a
threatening call from M. Badinot had compelled Florestan to go out
hastily, and he had forgotten his rendezvous with Madame de Lucenay.
She, not seeing any person, was about to enter the cabinet, when the
curtain was thrown on one side, and the duchess found herself confronted
with Florestan's father.

She could not repress a shriek.

"Clotilde!" exclaimed the comte, greatly astonished.

Intimately acquainted with the Prince de Noirmont, father of Madame de
Lucenay, M. de Saint-Remy had known her from her childhood, and, during
her girlhood, calling her, as he now did, by her baptismal name. The
duchess, motionless with surprise, continued gazing on the old man with
his white beard and mean attire, whose features she could not recall to
mind.

"You, Clotilde!" repeated the comte, in an accent of painful reproach;
"you here, in my son's house!"

These last words confirmed the vague reminiscence of Madame de Lucenay,
who then recognised Florestan's father, and said:

"M. de Saint-Remy?"

The position was so plain and declaratory that the duchess, whose
peculiar and resolute character is known to the reader, disda