The servants seemed to have withdrawn to their own quarters to discuss the event in whispers there.

We found the Vicomte in my study, still much agitated and broken.

He was sitting in my chair, the tears yet wet upon his wrinkled cheek.

There was a quick look of alertness in his eyes, as if the scythe had hissed close by in reaping the mature grain.
"Ah! my poor boy--my poor boy," he cried when he saw Alphonse, and they embraced after the manner of their race.
"And it is all my fault," continued the broken old man, wringing his hands and sinking into his chair again.
"No!" cried Alphonse, with characteristic energy.

"We surely cannot say that, without questioning--well--a wiser judgment than ours." He paused, and perhaps remembered dimly some of the teaching of a good, simple bourgeoise who had died before her husband fingered gold.
I sought to quiet the Vicomte also.