venience of being robbed
just as if you were in a wood."

Florestan bit his lips with rage.

"Take care, madame!" he cried.

"What, threats! and here, sir?" exclaimed Conrad.

"Pooh, pooh! Conrad, pay no attention," said Madame de Lucenay, taking a
lozenge from a sweetmeat box with the utmost composure; "a man of honour
ought not and cannot have any future communication with that person. If
he likes, I will tell you why."

A tremendous explosion would no doubt have occurred, when the two
folding-doors again opened, and the Duc de Lucenay entered, noisily,
violently, hurriedly, as was "his usual custom in the afternoon," as
well as the forenoon.

"Ah, my dear! What, dressed already?" said he to his wife. "Why, how
surprising! Quite astonishing! Good evening, Saint-Remy; good evening,
Conrad. Ah, you see the most miserable of men; that is to say, I neither
sleep nor eat, but am completely 'done up.' Can't reconcile myself to
it. Poor D'Harville, what an event!" And M. de Lucenay threw himself
back in a sort of small sofa with two backs, and, crossing his left knee
over his right, took his foot in his hand, whilst he continued to utter
the most distressing exclamations.

The excitement of Conrad and Florestan had time to calm down, without
being perceived by M. de Lucenay, who was the least clear-sighted man in
the world.

Madame de Lucenay, not from embarrassment, for she was never
embarrassed, as we know, but because Florestan's presence was as
disgusting as it was insupportable, said to the duke:

"We are ready to go as soon as you please. I am going to introduce
Conrad to Madame de Senneval."

"No, no, no!" cried the duke, letting go his foot to seize one of the
cushions, on which he struck violently with his two fists, to the great
alarm of Clotilde, who, at the sudden cries of her husband, started from
her chair.

"Monsieur, what ails you?" she inquired; "you frighten me exceedingly."

"No," replied the duke, thrusting the cushion from him, rising suddenly,
and walking up and down with rapid strides and gesticulations, "I cannot
get over the idea of the death of poor dear D'Harville; can you,
Saint-Remy?"

"Indeed, it was a frightful event!" said the vicomte, who, with hatred
and rage in his heart, kept his eye on M. de Montbrison; but this
latter, after the last words of his cousin, turned away from a man so
deeply degraded, not from want of feeling, but from pride.

"For goodness' sake, my lord,"