y trace, even the slightest, of what had taken place.
Was it not her son who had received the benefits of the deed, who had
usurped another's name and fortune?

When eight years after, believing her to be unfaithful, the count had
put an end to the connection which had given him so much happiness he
thought of obtaining possession of this unhappy correspondence. But he
knew not how to do so. A thousand reasons prevented his moving in the
matter.

The principal one was, that he did not wish to see this woman, once so
dearly loved. He did not feel sufficiently sure either of his anger or
of his firmness. Could he, without yielding, resist the tearful pleading
of those eyes, which had so long held complete sway over him?

To look again upon this mistress of his youth would, he feared, result
in his forgiving her; and he had been too cruelly wounded in his pride
and in his affection to admit the idea of a reconciliation.

On the other hand, to obtain the letters though a third party was
entirely out of the question. He abstained, then, from all action,
postponing it indefinitely. "I will go to her," said he to himself; "but
not until I have so torn her from my heart that she will have become
indifferent to me. I will not gratify her with the sight of my grief."

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, "