ent that here was the second, or, rather, the real master of
the house.

When the Duc de Lucenay returned home, with his umbrella in his hand and
his feet protected by clumsy goloshes (he hated going out in a carriage
in the daytime), the same domestic evolutions were gone through with
similar respect; still, in the eyes of a keen observer, there was a vast
difference between the reception accorded to the husband and that
reserved for the lover.

A corresponding attention displayed itself in the footman's waiting-room
when Florestan entered it, and one of the valets instantly arose to
announce him to Madame de Lucenay.

The vicomte had never been more joyous, never felt himself more at his
ease, more confident of himself, more assured of conquest. The victory
he had obtained over his father in the morning, the fresh proof of
attachment on the part of Madame de Lucenay, the joy at having escaped,
as it were, by a miracle, from a terrible situation, his renewed
confidence in his star, gave his handsome features an expression of
boldness and good humour which rendered it still more captivating.

In fact, he had never felt himself more himself. And he was right. Never
had his slender and graceful figure displayed a finer carriage, never
had his look been more elevated, never had his pride been more
deliciously tickled by the thought, "The great lady--the mistress of
this palace is mine--is at my feet! This very morning she waited for me
in my own house!"

Florestan had given way to these excessively vain-glorious reflections
as he traversed three or four apartments, which led to a small room in
which the duchess usually sat. A last look at himself in a glass which
he passed completed the excellent opinion which Florestan had of
himself. The _valet de chambre_ opened the folding-doors of the salon,
and announced, "Monsieur the Vicomte de Saint-Remy!"

It is impossible to paint the astonishment and indignation of the
duchess. She believed the comte had not concealed from his son that she
also had overheard all.

We have already said that, on discovering Florestan's infamy, Madame de
Lucenay's love, suddenly quenched, had changed into the most frigid
disdain. We have also said that, in the midst of her errors, her
frailties, Madame de Lucenay had preserved pure and intact her feelings
of rectitude, honour, and chivalric frankness, whose strength and
requirements were excessively strong. She possessed the better qualiti