"It is he! O mon Dieu! what is going to happen?"
"You wrote to me to come to you, seigneur, with respect to a matter which concerns the honor of our family, you say," said Léodgard, halting in front of his father; "but what is the meaning of such an assemblage as this? Are you about to sit in judgment? Have you sent for me to come here as an accused person?"
"Perhaps," replied the old marquis, in a solemn voice, fastening his eyes upon his son with a look which compelled him to turn his away.
But Léodgard, looking at the persons who surrounded him, speedily recognized them all. At sight of Bathilde he turned pale, and could not master his confusion; but when he recognized Landry, an expression of annoyance, of anger, appeared on his face, and he waited, quivering with impatience, to hear what was wanted of him.
"Comte de Marvejols," said the old marquis, "when a sin—I might say, a crime—has covered an old man's brow with shame and brought despair into a family, reparation should not be made in darkness and secrecy. Therefore I have requested Monsieur le Duc de Montaulac and Monsieur le Baron de Freilly to be kind enough to assist me with their presence to-day; for, in the presence of such gentlemen, one must do his duty or be adjudged unworthy to wear a sword."
"I do not understand you, seigneur," rejoined Léodgard, while his features assumed an arrogant and scornful expression. "If anyone here considers that I am unworthy to wear a sword, let him come forward and tell me so, and I will show him how I handle it."
"Honor, monsieur, does not consist simply in being able to fight with skill; if it were so, bandits, highwaymen, cutthroats, would all be men of honor, and would be rewarded rather than punished.—But a truce to discussion.—Comte Léodgard, cast your eye upon this young woman who is here, by your side,—upon this old soldier, who has never been recreant to honor, and who no longer dares to look upon his child, because she has brought the flush of shame to his brow—those are your two victims."
"What! he is the man! he! the mise——"
And Landry, leaving his sentence unfinished, put his hand to the hilt of his sabre. But a glance from the old marquis recalled him to himself; he restrained his passion and confined himself to glaring at the young man in a fashion which was sufficiently indicative of what he proposed to do.
The marquis resumed, still addressing his son: