If his heart counselled pardon and forgetfulness, wounded pride and self-respect demanded vengeance.
If Raoul, the baleful witness, the living proof of a far-off sin, were not in existence, M. Fauvel would not have hesitated. Gaston de Clameran was dead; he would have held out his arms to his wife, and said:
“Come to my heart! your sacrifices for my honor shall be your absolution; let the sad past be forgotten.”
But the sight of Raoul froze the words upon his lips.
“So this is your son,” he said to his wife—“this man, who has plundered you and robbed me!”
Mme. Fauvel was unable to utter a word in reply to these reproachful words.
“Oh!” said M. Verduret, “madame will tell you that this young man is the son of Gaston de Clameran; she has never doubted it. But the truth is—”
“What!”
“That, in order to swindle her, he has perpetrated a gross imposture.”
During the last few minutes Raoul had been quietly creeping toward the door, hoping to escape while no one was thinking of him.