So months and years passed on; and finally he began to say and believe that it was too late.  And for now more than twenty years, he had never passed a day without cursing his inexcusable folly.  Never had he been able to forget that above his head a danger more terrible than the sword of Damocles hung, suspended by a thread, which the slightest accident might break.

And now that thread had broken.  Often, when considering the possibility of such a catastrophe, he had asked himself how he should avert it?  He had formed and rejected many plans:  he had deluded himself, like all men of imagination, with innumerable chimerical projects, and now he found himself quite unprepared.

Albert stood respectfully, while his father sat in his great armorial chair, just beneath the large frame in which the genealogical tree of the illustrious family of Rheteau de Commarin spread its luxuriant branches.  The old gentleman completely concealed the cruel apprehensions which oppressed him.  He seemed neither irritated nor dejected; but his eyes expressed a haughtiness more than usually disdainful, and a self-reliance full of contempt.

“Now viscount,” he began in a firm voice, “explain yourself.  I need say nothing to you of the position of a father, obliged to blush before his son; you understand it, and will feel for me.  Let us spare each other, and try to be calm.  Tell me, how did you obtain your knowledge of this correspondence?”

Albert had had time to recover himself, and prepare for the present struggle, as he had impatiently waited four days for this interview.

The difficulty he experienced in uttering the first words had now given place to a dignified and proud demeanor.  He expressed himself clearly and forcibly, without losing himself in those details which in serious matters needlessly defer the real point at issue.

“Sir,” he replied, “on Sunday morning, a young man called here, stating that he had business with me of the utmost importance.  I received him.  He then revealed to me that I, alas! am only your natural son, substituted through your affection, for the legitimate child borne you by Madame de Commarin.”

“And did you not have this man kicked out of doors?” exclaimed the count.

“No, sir.  I was about to answer him very sharply, of course; but, presenting me with a packet of letters, he begged me to read them before replying.”

“Ah!” cried M. de Commarin, “you should have thrown them into the fire, for there was a fire, I suppose?  You held them in your hands; and they still exist!  Why was I not there?”

“Sir!” said Albert, reproachfully.  And, recalling the position Noel had occupied against the mantelpiece, and the manner in which he stood, he added,—­“Even if the thought had occurred to me, it was impracticable.  Besides, at the first glance, I recognised your handwriting.  I therefore took the letters, and read them.”