“You are very daring to interrupt me while I am speaking, sir,” exclaimed the count.  “Do I not know all your objections beforehand?  You are going to tell me that it is a revolting injustice, a wicked robbery.  I confess it, and grieve over it more than you possibly can.  Do you think that I now for the first time repent of my youthful folly?  For twenty years, sir, I have lamented my true son; for twenty years I have cursed the wickedness of which he is the victim.  And yet I learnt how to keep silence, and to hide the sorrow and remorse which have covered my pillow with thorns.  In a single instant, your senseless yielding would render my long sufferings of no avail.  No, I will never permit it!”

The count read a reply on his son’s lips:  he stopped him with a withering glance.

“Do you think,” he continued, “that I have never wept over the thought of my legitimate son passing his life struggling for a competence?  Do you think that I have never felt a burning desire to repair the wrong done him?  There have been times, sir, when I would have given half of my fortune simply to embrace that child of a wife too tardily appreciated.  The fear of casting a shadow of suspicion upon your birth prevented me.  I have sacrificed myself to the great name I bear.  I received it from my ancestors without a stain.  May you hand it down to your children equally spotless!  Your first impulse was a worthy one, generous and noble; but you must forget it.  Think of the scandal, if our secret should be disclosed to the public gaze.  Can you not foresee the joy of our enemies, of that herd of upstarts which surrounds us?  I shudder at the thought of the odium and the ridicule which would cling to our name.  Too many families already have stains upon their escutcheons; I will have none on mine.”

M. de Commarin remained silent for several minutes, during which Albert did not dare say a word, so much had he been accustomed since infancy to respect the least wish of the terrible old gentleman.

“There is no possible way out of it,” continued the count.  “Can I discard you to-morrow, and present this Noel as my son, saying, ’Excuse me, but there has been a slight mistake; this one is the viscount?’ And then the tribunals will get hold of it.  What does it matter who is named Benoit, Durand, or Bernard?  But, when one is called Commarin, even but for a single day, one must retain that name through life.  The same moral does not do for everyone; because we have not the same duties to perform.  In our position, errors are irreparable.  Take courage, then, and show yourself worthy of the name you bear.  The storm is upon you; raise your head to meet it.”

Albert’s impassibility contributed not a little to increase M. de Commarin’s irritation.  Firm in an unchangeable resolution, the viscount listened like one fulfilling a duty:  and his face reflected no emotion.  The count saw that he was not shaken.

“What have you to reply?” he asked.