“Valerie!” murmured the count.  He leaned upon the arm of his chair, his face buried in his hands; in one moment the whole past rose up before him.

“She has done me great harm,” he murmured, as if answering his thoughts.  “She has ruined my whole life; but ought I to be implacable?  She is dying from the accusation which is hanging over Albert our son.  It was I who was the cause of it all.  Doubtless, in this last hour, a word from me would be a great consolation to her.  I will accompany you, sir.”

Noel started at this unexpected proposal.

“O sir!” said he hastily, “spare yourself, pray, a heart-rending sight.  Your going would be useless.  Madame Gerdy exists probably still; but her mind is dead.  Her brain was unable to resist so violent a shock.  The unfortunate woman would neither recognise nor understand you.”

“Go then alone,” sighed the count, “go, my son!”

The words “my son,” pronounced with a marked emphasis, sounded like a note of victory in Noel’s ears.

He bowed to take his leave.  The count motioned him to wait.

“In any case,” he said, “a place at table will be set for you here.  I dine at half-past six precisely.  I shall be glad to see you.”

He rang.  His valet appeared.

“Denis,” said he, “none of the orders I may give will affect this gentleman.  You will tell this to all the servants.  This gentleman is at home here.”

The advocate took his leave; and the count felt great comfort in being once more alone.  Since morning, events had followed one another with such bewildering rapidity that his thoughts could scarcely keep pace with them.  At last, he was able to reflect.

“That, then,” said he to himself, “is my legitimate son.  I am sure of his birth, at any rate.  Besides I should be foolish to disown him, for I find him the exact picture of myself at thirty.  He is a handsome fellow, Noel, very handsome.  His features are decidedly in his favour.  He is intelligent and acute.  He knows how to be humble without lowering himself, and firm without arrogance.  His unexpected good fortune does not turn his head.  I augur well of a man who knows how to bear himself in prosperity.  He thinks well; he will carry his title proudly.  And yet I feel no sympathy with him; it seems to me that I shall always regret my poor Albert.  I never knew how to appreciate him.  Unhappy boy!  To commit such a vile crime!  He must have lost his reason.  I do not like the look of this one’s eye.  They say that he is perfect.  He expresses, at least, the noblest and most appropriate sentiments.  He is gentle and strong, magnanimous, generous, heroic.  He is without malice, and is ready to sacrifice himself to repay me for what I have done for him.  He forgives Madame Gerdy; he loves Albert.  It is enough to make one distrust him.  But all young men now-a-days are so.  Ah! we live in a happy age.  Our children are born free from all human shortcomings.  They have neither the vices, the passions, nor the tempers of their fathers; and these precocious philosophers, models of sagacity and virtue, are incapable of committing the least folly.  Alas!  Albert, too, was perfect; and he has assassinated Claudine!  What will this one do?—­All the same,” he added, half-aloud, “I ought to have accompanied him to see Valerie!”