Madame de Lucenay looked at him with much anxiety. "Courage, my friend," said she to him, in a low tone, "for you, for me, for this man--I know what remains for me to do." The old man looked at her fixedly; then, as if he had been aroused from his stupor by some violent shock, he raised his head, his features assumed a threatening appearance, and, forgetting that his son might hear him, he cried: "And I, also, for you, for me, for this man--I know what I have to do." "Who is there?" cried Florestan, surprised. Madame de Lucenay, fearing to meet the viscount, disappeared through the small door, and descended the private staircase. Florestan, having again demanded who was there, and receiving no answer, entered the saloon. The long beard of the old man changed him so much, he was so poorly dressed, that his son, who had not seen him for many years, did not at first recognize him; he advanced rapidly toward him with a menacing air, and said, "Who are you? What do you want here?" "I am the husband of that woman!" answered the count, showing the portrait of Madame de Saint Remy. "My father!" cried Florestan, retreating in alarm; and he endeavored to recall to mind the features so long forgotten. Erect, formidable, his looks irritated, his face purple with rage, his white hair thrown back, his arms crossed on his breast, the count, over-awed, confounded his son, who, with his head down, dared not to raise his eyes upon him. Yet Saint Remy, from some secret motive, made a violent effort to remain calm and to conceal his feelings of resentment. "Father!" said Florestan, in a faltering voice, "you were there!" "I was there." "You have heard--" "All." "Oh!" cried the viscount, mournfully, concealing his face in his hands. There was a moment's pause. Florestan, at first as much astonished as vexed at the unexpected apparition of his father, soon began to think what he could make out of this incident. "All is not lost," said he to himself; "the presence of my father is a stroke of fate. He knows all; he will not have his name dishonored; he is not rich, but be must have more than twenty-five thousand francs. Let us play close--address, emotion, and a little tenderness. I will let the duchess alone, and I am saved!" Then, giving to his charming features an expression of mournful dejection, moistening his eyes with the tears of repentance, assuming his most thrilling tones, his most pathetic manner, he cried, joining his hands with a gesture of despair: "Oh, my father: I am very unhappy! after so many years--to see you again, and at such a moment! I must appear so culpable to you! But deign to listen to me, I entreat you--I supplicate you; permit me, not to justify myself, but to explain to you my conduct; will you, my father?" Old Saint Remy answered not a word: his features remained immovable: he seated himself, and with his chin resting on the palm of his hand, looked at his son in silence.