"I have three hours left—I can fly."
"Where will you go without money? Judge now! on the contrary, this last forgery taken up, you will find yourself in a superb position; you would have no more debts. Come, come, promise me to speak once more to the duchess. You are such a rake, you know how to make yourself so interesting in spite of your faults; at the very worst, perhaps, you will be esteemed the less, or even no more, but you will be lifted out of this scrape. Come, promise me to see your friend, and I will run to Petit Jean, and do my best to obtain an hour or two more."
"Hell! must I drink of shame to the very dregs?"
"Come now! good luck—be tender, charming, fond; I run to Petit Jean: you will find me here until three o'clock; later it will no longer be in time: the public prosecutor's office is closed after four o'clock."
Badinot took his departure.
When the door was closed, Florestan was heard to cry, in profound despair, "Lost!"
During this conversation, which unmasked to the count the infamy of his son, and to Madame de Lucenay the infamy of the man whom she had so blindly loved, both remained immovable, scarcely breathing, under the weight of this frightful revelation.
It would be impossible to describe the mute eloquence of the sorrowful scene which passed between this young woman and the count, when there was no longer any doubt of the crime of Florestan. Extending his arm toward the room where his son remained, the old man smiled with bitter irony, cast a withering look on Madame de Lucenay, and seemed to say to her:
"Behold him for whom you have braved all shame, made every sacrifice!
Behold him you have reproached me for abandoning!"
The duchess understood the look; for a moment she hung her head under the weight of her shame. The lesson was terrible.