“He was a handsome young man, as you yourself are,” said Achard, looking sorrowfully at Paul, “and just as old as you are.”
“What was his name?”
“The Count de Moraix.”
“Then I also am of an old and noble family. I also have arms and an escutcheon as well as those young and insolent nobles who ask me for my parchments when I show them my wounds?”
“Wait, young man, wait; do not allow pride to carry you thus away, for I have not yet told you the name of her who gave you being, and you are still ignorant of the dreadful secret of your birth.”
“Well: be it so. I shall not with the less respect and veneration hear the name of my mother. What was my mother’s name?”
“The Marchioness d’Auray,” slowly replied the old man, as if regretting that he was compelled to mention her name.
“What is it that you tell me!” cried Paul, starting from his chair, and seizing the hands of the old man.
“The truth!” replied Achard, sorrowfully.
“Then Emanuel is my brother—Marguerite is my sister.”