e, there is no
one who, like Saint-Remy, does things in such devilish high style!"

"My dear fellow, Madame de Lucenay and your cousin are waiting for you,"
said M. de Saint-Remy, with bitterness.

"_Pardieu!_ and that's true. What a forgetful rascal I am! _Au revoir_,
Saint-Remy. Ah, I forgot," said the duke, stopping half way down the
steps, "if you have nothing better to do, come and dine with us
to-morrow. Lord Dudley has sent us some grouse from Scotland, and they
are out-of-the-way things, you know. You'll come, won't you?" And the
duke sprang into the carriage which contained his wife and Conrad.

Saint-Remy remained alone on the steps, and saw the carriage drive away.
His own then drove up. He got into it, casting on that house which he
had so often entered as master, and which now he so ignominiously
quitted, a look of anger, hatred, and despair.

"Home!" he said, abruptly.

"To the hotel!" said the footman to Edwards, as he closed the door.

We may imagine how bitter and desolating were Saint-Remy's thoughts as
he returned to his house. At the moment when he reached it, Boyer, who
awaited him at the portico, said to him:

"M. le Comte is above, and waits for M. le Vicomte."

"Very well."

"And there is also a man whom your lordship appointed at ten o'clock,--a
M. Petit-Jean."

"Very well. Oh, what an evening party!" said Florestan, as he went
up-stairs to see his father, whom he found in the salon on the first
floor, the same room in which their meeting of the morning had taken
place. "A thousand pardons, my father, that I was not awaiting you when
you arrived; but I--"

"Is the man here who holds the forged bill?" inquired the comte,
interrupting his son.

"Yes, father, he is below."

"Desire him to come up."

Florestan rang, and Boyer appeared.

"Desire M. Petit-Jean to come up."

"Yes, my lord," and Boyer withdrew.

"How good you are, father, to remember your kind promise!"

"I always remember what I promise."

"What gratitude do I owe you! How can I ever prove to you--"

"I will not have my name dishonoured! It shall not be!"

"It shall not be! No, it shall never be, I swear to you, my father!"

The comte looked strangely at his son, and repeated:

"No, it shall never be!" Then he added, with a sarcastic air, "You are a
prophet."

"I read my resolution in my heart."

Florestan's father made no rejoinder. He walked up and down the room
with his two hands thrust into the pock