“Ah, great heavens!” he muttered in a smothered voice.
But M. de Tregars seemed not to notice his stupor. Quite self-possessed, notwithstanding his emotion, he cast a rapid glance over the Count de Villegre, Mme. Favoral and Mlle. Gilberte. At their attitude, and at the expression of their countenance, he easily guessed the point to which things had come.
And, advancing towards Mme. Favoral, he bowed with an amount of respect which was certainly not put on.
“You have heard the Count de Villegre, madame,” he said in a slightly altered tone of voice. “I am awaiting my fate.”
The poor woman had never before in all her life been so fearfully perplexed. All these events, which succeeded each other so rapidly, had broken the feeble springs of her soul. She was utterly incapable of collecting her thoughts, or of taking a determination.
“At this moment, sir,” she stammered, taken unawares, “it would be impossible for me to answer you. Grant me a few days for reflection. We have some old friends whom I ought to consult.”
But Maxence, who had got over his stupor, interrupted her.
“Friends, mother!” he exclaimed. “And who are they? People in our position have no friends. What! when we are perishing, a man of heart holds out his hand to us, and you ask to reflect? To my sister, who bears a name henceforth disgraced, the Marquis de Tregars offers his name, and you think of consulting.”
The poor woman was shaking her head.
“I am not the mistress, my son,” she murmured; “and your father—”