"Then," replied the valet, "will you please follow me? I have the
count's orders to show you into his private room."
This confidence gave Noel an idea of his new power. He was at home,
henceforth, in that magnificent house, he was the master, the heir! His
glance, which wandered over the entire room, noticed the genealogical
tree, hanging on the wall. He approached it, and read.
It was like a page, and one of the most illustrious, taken from the
golden book of French nobility. Every name which has a place in our
history was there. The Commarins had mingled their blood with all the
great families; two of them had even married daughters of royalty. A
warm glow of pride filled the advocate's heart, his pulse beat quicker,
he raised his head haughtily, as he murmured, "Viscount de Commarin!"
The door opened. He turned, and saw the count entering. As Noel was
about to bow respectfully, he was petrified by the look of hatred,
anger, and contempt on his father's face.
A shiver ran through his veins; his teeth chattered; he felt that he was
lost.
"Wretch!" cried the count.
And, dreading his own violence, the old nobleman threw his cane into a
corner.
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