This fact did not disconcert the wily man, for drawing one of Mascarin's cards from his pocket, he begged the kind gentleman to take it upstairs, when he was sure that he would at once be sent for.
De Mussidan, when he read the name on the card, turned ghastly pale.
"Show him into the library," said he curtly.
Florestan left the room, and the Count mutely handed the card to his wife, but she had no need to read it.
"I can tell what it is," gasped she.
"The day for settling accounts has come," said the Count, "and this name is the fatal sign." The Countess flung herself upon her knees, and taking the hand that hung placidly by his side, pressed her lips tenderly to it.
"Forgive me, Octave!" she muttered.

"Will you not forgive me?
I am a miserable wretch, and why did not Heaven punish me for the sins that I have committed, and not make others expiate my offences ?" The Count put her gently aside.

He suffered intensely, and yet no word of reproach escaped his lips against the woman who had ruined his whole life.
"And Sabine," she went on, "must she, a De Mussidan, marry one of these wretched scoundrels ?" Sabine was the only one in the room who preserved her calmness; she had so schooled herself that her distress of mind was not apparent to the outward eye.
"Do not make yourselves miserable," said she, with a faint smile; "how do we know that M.de Croisenois may not make me an excellent husband after all ?" The Count gazed upon his daughter with a look of the fondest affection and gratitude.
"Dearest Sabine!" murmured he.

Her fortitude had restored his self-command.

"Let us be outwardly resigned," said he, "whatever our feelings may be.