ets of his long coat. He was very
pale.

"M. Petit-Jean," said Boyer, introducing a man of a mean, sordid, and
crafty look.

"Where is the bill?" inquired the comte.

"Here it is, sir," said Petit-Jean (Jacques Ferrand the notary's man of
straw), handing the bill to the comte.

"Is this it?" said the latter, showing the bill to his son.

"Yes, father."

The comte took from his waistcoat pocket twenty-five notes of a thousand
francs each, handed them to his son, and said:

"Pay!"

Florestan paid, and took the bill with a deep sigh of the utmost
satisfaction. M. Petit-Jean put the notes carefully in an old
pocket-book, made his bow, and retired. M. de Saint-Remy left the salon
with him, whilst Florestan was very carefully tearing up the bill.

"At least Clotilde's twenty-five thousand francs are still in my pocket,
and if nothing is revealed, that is a comfort. But how she treated me!
But what can my father have to say to the man Petit-Jean?"

The noise of a door being double-locked made the vicomte start. His
father returned to the room. His pallor had even increased.

"I fancied, father, I heard you lock the door of my cabinet?"

"Yes, I did."

"And why, my dear father?" asked Florestan, greatly amazed.

"I will tell you."

And the comte placed himself so that his son could not pass out by the
secret staircase which led to the ground floor.

Florestan, greatly disquieted, now observed the sinister look of his
father, and followed all his movements with mistrust. Without being able
to account for it, he felt a vague alarm.

"What ails you, father?"

"This morning when you saw me, your only thought was, 'My father will
not allow his name to be dishonoured; he will pay if I can but contrive
to wheedle him by some feigned words of repentance.'"

"Can you indeed think--"

"Do not interrupt me. I have not been your dupe; you have neither shame,
regret, nor remorse. You are vicious to the very core, you have never
felt one honest aspiration, you have not robbed as long as you have been
in possession of wherewithal to gratify your caprices,--that is what is
called the probity of rich persons of your stamp. Then came the want of
delicate feeling, then meannesses, then crime, then forgery. This is but
the first period of your life,--it is bright and pure in comparison with
that which would be yet to come."

"If I did not change my conduct, assuredly; but I shall change it,
father, I have sworn to you."