On this night, however, inspired by gaiety and drink, the Count had
been amazingly stricken by the gait and ogling of the lady in the
mask. The Reverend O'Flaherty, who was with him, and had observed
the figure in the black cloak, recognised, or thought he recognised,
her. "It is the woman who dogs your Excellency every day," said he.
"She is with that tailor lad who loves to see people hanged--your
Excellency's son, I mean." And he was just about to warn the Count
of a conspiracy evidently made against him, and that the son had
brought, most likely, the mother to play her arts upon him--he was
just about, I say, to show to the Count the folly and danger of
renewing an old liaison with a woman such as he had described Mrs.
Cat to be, when his Excellency, starting up, and interrupting his
ghostly adviser at the very beginning of his sentence, said, "Egad,
l'Abbe, you are right--it IS my son, and a mighty smart-looking
creature with him. Hey! Mr. What's-your-name--Tom, you rogue, don't
you know your own father?" And so saying, and cocking his beaver on
one side, Monsieur de Galgenstein strutted jauntily after Mr.
Billings and the lady.
It was the first time that the Count had formally recognised his
son.
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