Albert had no sooner uttered the sentence than he regretted his precipitation, but he had gone too far to stop.
“Sir,” he replied with some embarrassment, “I have to acquaint you with some important matters. My honour, yours, the honour of our house, are involved. I intended postponing this conversation till to-morrow, not desiring to trouble you on the evening of your return. However, as you wish me to explain, I will do so.”
The count listened with ill-concealed anxiety. He seemed to have divined what his son was about to say, and was terrified at himself for having divined it.
“Believe me, sir,” continued Albert slowly, “whatever may have been your acts, my voice will never be raised to reproach you. Your constant kindness to me—”
M. de Commarin held up his hand. “A truce to preambles; let me have the facts without phrases,” said he sternly.
Albert was some time without answering, he hesitated how to commence.
“Sir,” said he at length, “during your absence, I have read all your correspondence with Madame Gerdy. All!” added he, emphasising the word, already so significant.
The count, as though stung by a serpent, started up with such violence that he overturned his chair.
“Not another word!” cried he in a terrible voice. “I forbid you to speak!” But he no doubt soon felt ashamed of his violence, for he quietly raised his chair, and resumed in a tone which he strove to render light and rallying: “Who will hereafter refuse to believe in presentiments? A couple of hours ago, on seeing your pale face at the railway station, I felt that you had learned more or less of this affair. I was sure of it.”
There was a long silence. With one accord, father and son avoided letting their eyes meet, lest they might encounter glances too eloquent to bear at so painful a moment.