CHAPTER XI.
THE INTERVIEW.It is impossible to paint the look which Madame de Lucenay and the father of Florestan exchanged at these terrible words,—“The galleys, the galleys, my poor dear vicomte!” The comte became deadly pale, and leant on the back of an armchair, whilst his knees seemed to sink beneath him. His venerable and respected name,—his name dishonoured by the man whom he accused of being the fruit of adultery!
The first feeling over, the contracted features of the old man, a threatening gesture which he made as he advanced towards the adjoining apartment, betrayed a resolution so alarming that Madame de Lucenay seized his hand, and said, in an accent of the most perfect conviction:
“He is innocent; I will swear it. Listen in silence.”
The comte paused. He wished to believe w
