“Pardon, father; pardon,” cried Norbert, falling upon his knees.
The Duke softly stretched out his hand. “I was mad with family pride,” said he; “and God punished me. My son, I forgive you.”
Norbert’s sobs broke the stillness of the chamber.
“My son, I renounce my ideas,” continued the Duke. “I do not desire you to wed Mademoiselle de Puymandour if you feel that you cannot love her.”
“Father,” answered Norbert, “I have obeyed your wishes, and she is now my wife.”
A gleam of terrible anguish passed over the Duke’s countenance; he raised his hands as though to shield his eyes from some grizzly spectre, and in tones of heartrending agony exclaimed: “Too late! Too late!”
He fell back in terrible convulsions, and in a moment was dead. If, as has been often asserted, the veil of the hereafter is torn asunder, then the Duke de Champdoce had a glimpse into a terrible future.