usly, and without any transition,
a deadly disgust, an icy disdain, at once destroyed all that affection
hitherto so strong. She was no longer the mistress, unworthily deceived
by her lover, but the lady of high blood and rank detecting a man of her
circle to be a swindler and a forger, and driving him forth. Supposing
that there were even some extenuating circumstances for the ignominy of
Florestan, Madame de Lucenay would not have admitted them; for, in her
estimation, the man who crossed certain bounds of honour, whether from
vice, weakness, or persuasion, no longer had an existence in her eyes,
honourable demeanour being with her a question of existence or
non-existence. The only painful feeling which the duchess experienced
was excited by the terrible effect which this unexpected revelation
produced on her old friend, the comte.

For some moments he seemed neither to see nor hear; his eyes were fixed,
his head bowed, his arms hanging by his side, his face livid as death;
whilst from time to time a convulsive sigh heaved his breast. With such
a man, as resolute as energetic, such a condition was more alarming than
the most violent transports of anger. Madame de Lucenay regarded him
with great uneasiness.

"Courage, my dear friend," she said to him, in a low voice, "for
you,--for me,--for this man,--I know what remains for me to do."

The old man looked steadfastly at her, and then, as if aroused from his
stupor by a violent internal commotion, he raised his head, his features
assumed a menacing appearance, and, forgetting that his son could hear
him, he exclaimed:

"And I, too, for you,--for me,--and for this man,--I know what remains
for me to do."

"Who is there?" inquired Florestan, surprised.

Madame de Lucenay, fearing to find herself in the vicomte's presence,
disappeared by the little door, and descended the secret staircase.
Florestan having again asked who was there, and receiving no reply,
entered the salon. He found the comte there alone. The old man's long
beard had so greatly altered him, and he was so miserably clad, that his
son, who had not seen him for several years, not recognising him at the
moment, advanced towards him with a menacing air.

"What are you doing there? Who are you?"

"The husband of that woman!" replied the comte, pointing to the picture
of Madame de Saint-Remy.

"My father!" exclaimed Florestan, recoiling in alarm, as he recalled the
features of the comte, so long forgo