Then by degrees, to the cruel anxiety which had contracted the features of Madame de Lucenay succeeded a kind of noble indignation. The inexcusable faults of this woman were at least palliated by the fidelity of her love, by the boldness of her devotion, by the grandeur of her generosity, by the frankness of her character, and by her inexorable aversion for everything that was cowardly and dishonest.
Still too young, too handsome, too much sought after, to experience the humility of having been made use of, this proud and decided woman, once the illusion of love having vanished, felt neither hatred nor anger; instantaneously, without any transition, a mortal disgust, an icy disdain, killed her affection, until then so lively; it was no longer a woman deceived by her lover, but it was the lady of fashion discovering that a man of her society was a cheat and a forger.
In supposing even that some circumstances might have extenuated the ignominy of Florestan, Madame de Lucenay would not have admitted them; according to her views, the man who overstepped certain limits of honor, either through vice or weakness, no longer existed in her eyes, honor being for her a question of existence or non-existence. The only sorrowful feeling experienced by the duchess, was excited by the terrible effect which this unexpected revelation produced on the count, her old friend. For some moments he appeared not to see nor hear; his eyes were fixed, his head hung down, his arms suspended, his paleness livid, and from time to time a convulsive sigh escaped from his bosom. With a man as resolute as he was energetic, such a state of dejection was more alarming than the most furious bursts of rage.
Madame de Lucenay looked at him with much anxiety. "Courage, my friend," said she to him, in a low tone, "for you, for me, for this man—I know what remains for me to do."
The old man looked at her fixedly; then, as if he had been aroused from his stupor by some violent shock, he raised his head, his features assumed a threatening appearance, and, forgetting that his son might hear him, he cried: "And I, also, for you, for me, for this man—I know what I have to do."
"Who is there?" cried Florestan, surprised.
Madame de Lucenay, fearing to meet the viscount, disappeared through the small door, and descended the private staircase.
Florestan, having again demanded who was there, and receiving no answer, entered the saloon.
The long beard of the old man changed him so much, he was so poorly dressed, that his son, who had not seen him for many years, did not at first recognize him; he advanced rapidly toward him with a menacing air, and said, "Who are you? What do you want here?"
"I am the husband of that woman!" answered the count, showing the portrait of Madame de Saint Remy.