He had disappeared for the moment, when a small door hidden in the hangings of the wall opened softly, and Madame de Lucenay, wrapped in a large green cashmere shawl, having a very plain black velvet bonnet on, entered the salon, which the comte had but that instant quitted. It is necessary to offer some explanation of this unexpected visit. Florestan de Saint-Remy on the previous evening made an appointment with the duchess for the next morning. She having, as we have said, a key of the little gate in the narrow lane, had, as usual, entered by the conservatory, relying on finding Florestan on the ground floor boudoir; but, not finding him there, she believed (as had before occurred) that the vicomte was engaged in his cabinet. A secret staircase led from the boudoir to the story above. Madame de Lucenay went up without hesitation, supposing that M. de Saint-Remy had given orders, as usual, to be denied to everybody. Unluckily, a threatening call from M. Badinot had compelled Florestan to go out hastily, and he had forgotten his rendezvous with Madame de Lucenay. She, not seeing any person, was about to enter the cabinet, when the curtain was thrown on one side, and the duchess found herself confronted with Florestan's father. She could not repress a shriek. "Clotilde!" exclaimed the comte, greatly astonished. Intimately acquainted with the Prince de Noirmont, father of Madame de Lucenay, M. de Saint-Remy had known her from her childhood, and, during her girlhood, calling her, as he now did, by her baptismal name. The duchess, motionless with surprise, continued gazing on the old man with his white beard and mean attire, whose features she could not recall to mind. "You, Clotilde!" repeated the comte, in an accent of painful reproach; "you here, in my son's house!" These last words confirmed the vague reminiscence of Madame de Lucenay, who then recognised Florestan's father, and said: "M. de Saint-Remy?" The position was so plain and declaratory that the duchess, whose peculiar and resolute character is known to the reader, disdained to have recourse to falsehood, in order to account for her appearance there; and, relying on the really paternal affection which the comte had always testified for her, she said to him, with that air at once graceful, cordial, and decided, which was so peculiarly her own: "Come, now, do not scold; you are my old, very old friend. Recollect you called me your dear little Clotilde at least twenty years ago." "Yes, I called you so then; but--" "I know beforehand all you would say: you know my motto, 'What is, is what will be.'" "Oh, Clotilde!" "Spare your reproaches, and let me rather express my extreme delight at seeing you again: your presence reminds me of so many things,--my poor dear father, in the first place, and then--heigho! my 'sweet fifteen!' Oh, how delightful it is to be fifteen!" "It is because your father was my friend that--"