He had now crossed the corridor and was descending the stairs, still rehearsing the scene in his mind. Smarting under his wounded self-love, he exaggerated everything. Had they not forgotten the respect due to him, Monsieur de Pontivy, to his house, and worse still, had they not mockingly set him at defiance? He smiled grimly at the thought. He had now reached the last step of the second staircase, and was turning into the corridor of the ground floor. "Decidedly," he muttered, "I was mistaken in my estimate of that young man. He is a fool!" All at once he stopped. He caught the sound of whispering, and the noise of a door being softly and cautiously closed. Some one here, at this hour! Who can it be? He blew out the candle, and gliding along the wall, he approached, but suddenly recoiled, for in the grey light of the dawn he had recognised Robespierre. The young man was advancing quietly in the direction of the stairs. The truth, all the awful, maddening truth, the endless shame and dishonour, rushed on Monsieur de Pontivy in a moment, and stunned him like a blow. Robespierre had come from Clarisse's room! Everything swam before him. He held in his hand the extinguished candle, with such force that the bronze candlestick entered his flesh. He made a movement as if to use it as a weapon, and kill the wretch there and then. At that instant the young man saw him. He turned deadly pale and tried to escape, but Monsieur de Pontivy threw himself on him, and seized him by the throat. "Where do you come from?" he almost hissed. The young man swayed with the shock, his knees, bent under him. Monsieur de Pontivy, mad with rage, repeated--"Where do you come from?" He was strangling him. Robespierre gave a hoarse scream. "You are hurting me!" he gasped. "Hurting you! Hurting you! did you say? What if I kill you, knock out your cursed brains with this"--brandishing the bronze candlestick--"yes, kill you, wretch, for bringing dishonour on my house...." But just then Monsieur de Pontivy felt a hand laid on his arm arresting the blow. It was Clarisse, drawn by the noise, half-dressed, her hair hanging in disorder down her back. "Oh, father!" she sobbed, falling on her knees, as if for pardon. It was dishonour, yes, dishonour complete, palpable, avowed, dishonour that flowed with his. daughter's tears, and covered her face with shame. The agony of the father was augmented by that of the head of the family, whose record of austerity and uprightness was thus dragged in the mud. The young man, having regained his self-possession, was about to speak, but Monsieur de Pontivy gave him no time. "Silence!" he thundered. "Not a word! Do you hear, sir? Not a word! To your room, and await my orders!" The command was accompanied with such a gesture that Robespierre could only obey, and silently moved towards the staircase. Then, turning towards Clarisse, he continued, "As to you ..."