"You, Clotilde!" repeated the comte, in an accent of painful reproach; "you here, in my son's house!"
These last words confirmed the vague reminiscence of Madame de Lucenay, who then recognised Florestan's father, and said:
"M. de Saint-Remy?"
The position was so plain and declaratory that the duchess, whose peculiar and resolute character is known to the reader, disdained to have recourse to falsehood, in order to account for her appearance there; and, relying on the really paternal affection which the comte had always testified for her, she said to him, with that air at once graceful, cordial, and decided, which was so peculiarly her own:
"Come, now, do not scold; you are my old, very old friend. Recollect you called me your dear little Clotilde at least twenty years ago."
"Yes, I called you so then; but—"
"I know beforehand all you would say: you know my motto, 'What is, is what will be.'"
"Oh, Clotilde!"
"Spare your reproaches, and let me rather express my extreme delight at seeing you again: your presence reminds me of so many things,—my poor dear father, in the first place, and then—heigho! my 'sweet fifteen!' Oh, how delightful it is to be fifteen!"
"It is because your father was my friend that—"