Volume II Part 82 (1/2)

The porter, instead of replying, examined with much contempt the white beard, the threadbare coat, and the old hat of the stranger, who held in his hand a large cane.

”M. de Saint Remy?” repeated the count, impatiently, shocked at the impertinent examination of the porter.

”Not at home.” So saying, Pipelet's rival drew the cord, and with a significant gesture, invited the unknown to retire.

”I will wait,” said the count, and he pa.s.sed on.

”Stay, friend! one does not enter that way into houses!” cried the porter, running after and taking him by the arm.

”How, scoundrel!” answered the old man, raising his cane; ”you dare to touch me!”

”I will dare something else, if you do not walk out at once. I have told you that my lord was out, so walk off.”

At this moment, Boyer, attracted by the sound of voices, made his appearance. ”What is the matter?” demanded he.

”M. Boyer, this man will absolutely enter, although I have told him that my lord is out.”

”Let us put a stop to this,” replied the count, addressing Boyer; ”I wish to see my son---if he has gone out, I will wait.”

We have said that Boyer was ignorant neither of the existence nor of the misanthropy of the father, and sufficiently a physiognomist, he did not for a moment doubt the ident.i.ty of the count, but bowed low to him, and answered, ”If your lords.h.i.+p will be so good as to follow me, I am at his orders.”

”Go on,” said Saint Remy, who accompanied Boyer, to the profound dismay of the porter.

Preceded by the valet, the count arrived on the first story, and still following his guide, was ushered into a little saloon, situated immediately over the boudoir of the ground floor.

”My lord has been obliged to go out this morning,” said Boyer, ”and if your lords.h.i.+p will have the kindness to wait, it will not be long before he returns.” And the valet disappeared.

Remaining alone, the count looked around him with indifference, until suddenly he discovered the picture of his wife, the mother of Florestan de Saint Remy. He folded his arms on his heart, held down his head, as if to avoid the sight of this victim, and walked about with rapid steps.

”And yet I am not certain---he may be my son---sometimes this doubt is frightful to me. If he is my son, then my abandoning him, my refusal ever to see him, are unpardonable. And then to think my name--of which I have ever been so proud--belongs to the son of a man whose heart I could have torn out! Oh! I do not know why I am not bereft of my senses when I think of it.” Saint Remy, continuing to walk with agitation, raised mechanically the curtain which separated the saloon from Florestan's study and entered the apartment.

He had hardly disappeared for a moment, than a small door, concealed by the tapestry, opened softly, and Madame de Lucenay, wrapped in a shawl of green Cashmere, and wearing a very plain black velvet bonnet, entered the saloon which the count had just left. The d.u.c.h.ess, as we have said before, had a key to the little private garden-door; not finding Florestan in the apartments below, she had supposed that, perhaps, he was in his study, and without any fear had come up by a small staircase which led from the boudoir to the first story.

Unfortunately, a very threatening visit from M. Badinot had obliged him to go out precipitately.

Madame de Lucenay, seeing no one, was about to enter the cabinet, when the curtains were thrown back, and she found herself face to face with the father of Florestan. She could not restrain a cry of alarm.

”Clotilde!” cried the count, stupefied.

The d.u.c.h.ess remained immovable, contemplating with surprise the old white-bearded man, so badly clothed, whose features did not appear altogether strange.

”You, Clotilde!” repeated the count, in a tone of sorrowful reproach, ”you here--in my son's house?”

These last words decided Madame de Lucenay; she at length recognized the father of Florestan, and cried, ”M. de Saint Remy!” Her position was so plain and significant, that the d.u.c.h.ess disdained to have recourse to a falsehood to explain the motive of her presence in this house; counting on the paternal affection which the count had formerly shown her, she extended her hand, and said, with an air--gracious, cordial, and fearless--which belonged only to her, ”Come, do not scold! you are my oldest friend! Do you remember, more than twenty years ago, you called me your dear Clotilde?”

”Yes, I called you thus, but--”

”I know in advance all that you will say to me; you know my motto; _What is, is; what shall be, shall be._”

”Ah, Clotilde!”