"Tell M. Petit Jean to come here." "Yes, my lord;" and Boyer disappeared. "How kind you are, father, to remember your promise!" "I always remember what I promise." "How grateful! How can I ever prove----" "I will not have my name dishonored; it shall not be." "It shall not be; no; and it shall never be more, I swear to you, father." The count looked at his son in a singular manner, and repeated, "No, it shall never be more!" Then, with a sneering laugh, he added, "You are a conjuror!" "I read my resolution in my heart." The count made no reply, but walked up and down the room with his hands in the large pockets of his overcoat. "M. Petit Jean," said Boyer, introducing a man with a low and cunning expression of face. "Where is that bill?" said the count. "Here it is, sir," said Petit Jean (a man of straw of Jacques Ferrand) presenting it. "Is that it?" said the count to his son. "Yes, father." The count drew from the pocket of his waistcoat twenty-five notes of one thousand francs each, handed them to his son, and said, "Pay!" Florestan paid, and took the draft with a profound sigh of satisfaction. M. Petit Jean placed the bills carefully in an old pocket-book, and retired. Saint Remy went with him out of the room, while Florestan prudently tore up the note. "At least the twenty-five thousand francs from Clotilde remain. If nothing is discovered, it is a consolation. But how she has treated me! Now, what can my father have to say to Petit Jean?" The noise of a key turned in a lock made the viscount shudder. His father re-entered; his pallor had increased. "I thought I heard some one lock the door of my cabinet, father?" "Yes, I locked it." "You, father!" cried Florestan, surprised. The count placed himself so that his son could not descend the private stairs which led to out-doors. Florestan, alarmed, began to remark the sinister look of his father, and followed all his movements with anxiety. Without being able to explain it, he felt alarmed. "Father, what is the matter?" "This morning, on seeing me, your sole thought has been this: Father will not have his name dishonored; he will pay, if I can manage to make him believe in my assumed repentance." "Oh! can you think that--" "Do not interrupt me. I have been your dupe; you have neither shame nor regret, nor remorse: you are rotten to the heart; you have never had an honest sentiment; you have not robbed as long as you had enough to satisfy your caprices; that is what is called probity by rich people of your stamp; then followed want of decency, then baseness, crime, and forgery. This is only the first period of your life--it is beautiful and pure compared to that which awaits you." "If I did not change my conduct, I acknowledge; but I will change, father. I have sworn it to you." "You would not change." "But--"