"Who is there?" inquired Florestan, surprised.
Madame de Lucenay, fearing to find herself in the vicomte's presence, disappeared by the little door, and descended the secret staircase. Florestan having again asked who was there, and receiving no reply, entered the salon. He found the comte there alone. The old man's long beard had so greatly altered him, and he was so miserably clad, that his son, who had not seen him for several years, not recognising him at the moment, advanced towards him with a menacing air.
"What are you doing there? Who are you?"
"The husband of that woman!" replied the comte, pointing to the picture of Madame de Saint-Remy.
"My father!" exclaimed Florestan, recoiling in alarm, as he recalled the features of the comte, so long forgotten.
Standing erect, with threatening air, angry look, his forehead scarlet, the comte looked down upon his son, who, with his head bent down, dared not raise his eyes towards him. Still, M. de Saint-Remy, for some motive, made a violent effort to remain calm, and conceal his real feelings and resentment.
"My father!" said Florestan, half choked. "You were there?"
"I was there."
"You heard, then?"
"All!"