"So long as it is Mother Bouvard, and no one else, that has this customer; she has a family, and is the dowager and the honour of the Temple."

It was, indeed, impossible to have a face more prepossessing, more open, and more frank than that of the dowager of the Temple.

"Here, my pretty little woman," she said to Rigolette, who was looking at sundry articles with the eye of a connoisseur, "this is the second-hand bargain I told you of: two bed furnitures and bedding complete, and as good as new. If you would like a small old secrétaire very cheap, here is one (and Mother Bouvard pointed to one). I had it in the same lot. I do not usually buy furniture, but I could not refuse this, for the poor people of whom I had it appeared to be so very unhappy! Poor lady! it was the sale of this piece of furniture which seemed to cut her to the very heart. I dare say it was a family piece of 'furniture.'"

At these words, and whilst the shopkeeper was settling with Rigolette as to the prices of the various articles of purchase, Rodolph was attentively looking at the secrétaire which Mother Bouvard had pointed out. It was one of those ancient pieces of rosewood furniture, almost triangular in shape, closed by a front panel, which let down, and, supported by two long brass hinges, served for a writing-table. In the centre of this panel, which was inlaid with ornaments of wood of different patterns, Rodolph observed a cipher let in, of ebony, and which consisted of an M. and an R., intertwined and surmounted with a count's coronet. He conjectured, therefore, that the last possessor of this piece of furniture was a person in an elevated rank of society. His curiosity increased, and he looked at the secrétaire with redoubled scrutiny; he opened the drawers mechanically, one after the other, when, having some difficulty in drawing out the last, and trying to discover the obstacle, he perceived, and drew carefully out, a sheet of paper, half shut up between the drawer and the bottom of the opening. Whilst Rigolette was concluding her bargain with Mother Bouvard, Rodolph was engrossed in examining what he had found. From the numerous erasures which covered this paper, he perceived that it was the copy of an unfinished letter. Rodolph, with considerable difficulty, made out what follows:

This sketch of the letter ended here, for what followed was covered with ink erasures, which completely blotted out the lines. At the bottom of the page, and in the corner, Rodolph found this kind of memorandum:

Rodolph remained deeply thoughtful after the perusal of this fragment of a letter, in which he had found two names whose connection struck him. Although the fresh infamy which appeared to accuse Jacques Ferrand was not proved, yet this man had proved himself so pitiless towards the unhappy Morel, had behaved so shamefully to Louise, his daughter, that the denial of a deposit, protected by certain impunity, on the part of such a wretch, appeared to him by no means improbable. This mother, who claimed a fortune which had disappeared so strangely, was, doubtless, used to a life of ease and comfort. Ruined by a sudden blow, and knowing no one in Paris, as the letter said, what must have been the existence of these two females, perhaps utterly destitute and alone in the midst of this vast metropolis!

The prince had, as we know, promised sure occupation to madame, by giving her accidentally, and to employ her mind, a part to play in some future work of charity, being certain to find sure misery for her to curtail before his next meeting with that lady. He thought that, perhaps, chance might bring before him some unfortunate and worthy person, who would, as he trusted, interest the heart and imagination of Madame d'Harville. The sketch of the letter which he held in his hands, and the copy of which had, doubtless, never been sent to the person whose assistance was implored, evinced a high and resigned mind, which would revolt from an offer of alms. So, then, how many precautions, how many plans, how much delicacy, must be employed to conceal the source of such generous succour, or to make it accepted! And, then, how much address to introduce oneself to such a female, in order to judge if she really merited the interest which she seemed capable of inspiring! Rodolph foresaw in the development of this mysterious affair a multitude of new and touching emotions, which would singularly attract Madame d'Harville in the way he had previously proposed to her.

"Well, husband," said Rigolette, gaily, to Rodolph, "what is there so interesting in that piece of paper, which you are reading there?"

"My little wife," replied Rodolph, "you are very inquisitive; I will tell you by and by. Have you bought all you want?"

"Yes; and your poor friends will be set up like kings. There is nothing to do now but to pay; Madame Bouvard has made every allowance, I must do her that credit."

"My little wife, an idea occurs to me; whilst I am paying, suppose you go and choose the clothes for Madame Morel and her children? I confess my ignorance on the subject of such purchases. You can tell them to bring everything here, and then all the things will be together, and the poor people will have everything at once."

"You are right, husband. Wait here, and I shall not be long; I know two shopkeepers here, where I am a regular customer, and I shall find in their shops all I require."

And Rigolette went out, saying:

"Madame Bouvard, take care of my husband, and do not flirt with him, mind, whilst I am gone."

And then came the laugh, and away the merry maiden ran.

"I must say, sir," said Mother Bouvard to Rodolph, "that you have a capital little manager there. Peste! she knows how to make a bargain! And then she is so prettily behaved and pretty-looking! red and white, with those large, beautiful black eyes, and such hair!"

"Is she not charming? and ain't I a happy husband, Madame Bouvard?"

"As happy a husband as she is a wife, I am sure of that."

"You are not mistaken. But tell me how much I owe you."

"Your little lady would only give me three hundred and thirty francs for the whole; as true as heaven's above us, I only make fifteen francs by the bargain, for I did not try to get the things as cheaply as I might, for I hadn't the heart to bate 'em down; the people who sold 'em seemed so uncommon miserable!"

"Really! Were they the same people that you bought this little secrétaire of?"

"Yes, sir; and it cuts my heart to think of it! Only imagine, the day before yesterday there came here a young and still pretty girl, but so pale and thin one could almost see through her; and you know that pains people that have any feeling at all. Although she was, as they say, neat as a new-made pin, her old threadbare black worsted shawl, her black stuff gown, which was also worn bare, her straw bonnet, in the month of January, for she was in mourning, all showed what we call great distress, for I am sure she was a real lady. At last, blushing up to the very eyes, she asked me if I would buy two beds and bedding complete, and a little old secrétaire. I said that, as I sold, of course I bought, and that if they would suit me I would have them, but that I must see the things. She then asked me to go with her to her apartment, not far off, on the other side of the Boulevards, in a house on the Quay of St. Martin's Canal. I left my niece in the shop, and followed the lady until we reached a smallish house at the bottom of a court; we went up to the fourth floor, and, the lady having knocked, the door was opened by a young girl about fourteen years of age, who was also in mourning, and equally pale and thin, but still very, very pretty, so much so that I was quite astonished."

"Well, and this young girl?"

"Was the daughter of the lady in mourning. Though it was very cold, yet a thin gown of black cotton with white spots, and a small, shabby mourning shawl, that was all she had on her."

"And their rooms were wretched?"

"Imagine, sir, two little rooms, very neat, but nearly empty, and so cold that I was almost froze; there was not a spark of fire in the grate, nor any appearance of there having been any for a very long time. All the furniture was two beds, two chairs, a chest of drawers, an old portmanteau, and the small secrétaire, and on the chest was a parcel, wrapped in a pocket-handkerchief. This small parcel was all the mother and child had left when their furniture was once sold. The landlord had taken the two bedsteads, the chairs, a trunk, and a table, for what was due to him, as the porter said, who had gone up-stairs with us. Then the lady begged me fairly to estimate the mattresses, sheets, curtains, and quilts; and, as I am an honest woman, sir, although it is my business to buy cheap and sell dear, yet, when I saw the poor young thing with her eyes full of tears, and her mother, who, in spite of her affected calmness, seemed to be weeping in her heart, I offered for the things fifteen francs more than they were worth to sell again, I swear I did; I agreed, too, just to oblige them, to take this small secrétaire, although it is not a sort of thing I ever deal in."

"I will buy it of you, Madame Bouvard."

"Will you though? So much the better, sir, for it is else likely to stay with me for some time; I took it, as I say, only to oblige the poor lady. I told her then what I would give for the things, and I expected that she would haggle a bit and ask me something more, I did. Then it was that I saw she was not one of the common; she was in downright misery, she was, and no mistake about it, I am sure! I says to her, 'It's worth so much,' She answers me, and says, 'Very well; let us go back to your shop, and you can pay me there, for we shall not return here again to this house.' Then she says to her daughter, who was sitting on the trunk a-crying, 'Claire, take this bundle.' I remember her name, and I'm sure she called her Claire. Then the young lady got up, but, as she was crossing the room, as she came to the little secrétaire she went down on her knees before it, and, dear heart! how the poor thing did sob! 'Courage, my dear child; remember some one sees you,' said her mother to her, in a low voice, but yet I heard her. You may tell, sir, they were poor, but very proud notwithstanding. When the lady gave me the key of the little secrétaire, I saw a tear in her red eyes, and it seemed as if her very heart bled at parting with this old piece of furniture; but she tried to keep up her courage, and not seem downcast before strangers. Then she told the porter that I should come and take away all that the landlord did not keep, and after that we came back here. The young lady gave her arm to her mother, and carried in her hand the small bundle, which contained all they possessed in the world. I handed them their three hundred and fifteen francs, and then I never saw them again."

"But their name?"

"I don't know; the lady sold me the things in the presence of the porter, and so I had no occasion to ask her name, for what she sold belonged to her."

"But their new address?"

"I don't know that either."

"No doubt they know at their old lodging?"

"No, sir; for, when I went back to get the things, the porter told me, speaking of the mother and daughter, 'that they were very quiet people, very respectable, and very unfortunate,—I hope no misfortune has happened to them! They appeared to be very calm and composed, but I am sure they were quite in despair.' 'And where are they gone now to lodge?' I asked. 'Ma foi, I don't know!' was the answer; 'they left without telling me, and I am sure they will not return here.'"

The hopes which Rodolph had entertained for a moment vanished; how could he go to work to discover these two unfortunate females, when all the trace he had of them was that the young daughter's name was Claire, and the fragment of a letter, of which we have already made mention, and at the bottom of which were these words:

The only, and very remote chance of discovering the traces of these unfortunates was through Madame de Lucenay, who, fortunately, was on intimate terms with Madame d'Harville.

"Here, ma'am, be so good as to take your money," said Rodolph to the shopkeeper, handing her a note for five hundred francs.

"I will give you the change, sir. What is your address?"

"Rue du Temple, No. 17."

"Rue du Temple, No. 17; oh, very well, very well, I know it."

"Have you ever been to that house?"

"Often. First I bought the furniture of a woman there, who lent money on wages; it is not a very creditable business, to be sure, but that's no affair of mine,—she sells, I buy, and so that's settled. Another time, not six weeks ago, I went there again for the furniture of a young man, who lived on the fourth floor, and was moving away."

"M. François Germain, perhaps?" said Rodolph.

"Just so. Did you know him?"

"Very well; and, unfortunately, he has not left his present address in the Rue du Temple, so I do not know where to find him. But where shall we find a cart to take the goods?"

"As it is not far, a large truck will do, and old Jérome is close by, my regular commissionaire. If you wish to know the address of M. François Germain, I can help you."

"What? Do you know where he lives?"

"Not exactly, but I know where you may be sure to meet with him."

"Where?"

"At the notary's where he works."

"At a notary's?"

"Yes, who lives in the Rue du Sentier."

"M. Jacques Ferrand?" exclaimed Rodolph.

"Yes; and a very worthy man he is. There is a crucifix and some holy boxwood in his study; it looks just as if one was in a sacristy."

"But how did you know that M. Germain worked at this notary's?"

"Why, this way: this young man came to me to ask me to buy his little lot of furniture all of a lump. So that time, too, though rather out of my line, I bought all his kit, and brought it here, because he seemed a nice young fellow, and I had a pleasure in obliging him. Well, I bought him right clean out, and I paid him well; he was, no doubt, very well satisfied, for, a fortnight afterwards, he came again, to buy some bed furniture from me. A commissionaire, with a truck, went with him, everything was packed: well, but, at the moment he was going to pay me, lo and behold! he had forgotten his purse; but he looked so like an honest man that I said to him, 'Take the things with you,—never mind, I shall be passing your way, and will call for the money.' 'Very good,' says he; 'but I am never at home, so call to-morrow in the Rue du Sentier, at M. Jacques Ferrand's, the notary, where I am employed, and I will pay you.' I went next day, and he paid me; only, what was very odd to me was that he sold his things, and then, a fortnight afterwards, he buys others."

Rodolph thought that he was able to account for this singular fact. Germain was desirous of destroying every trace from the wretches who were pursuing him: fearing, no doubt, that his removal might put them on the scent of his fresh abode, he had preferred, in order to avoid this danger, selling his goods, and afterwards buying others.

The prince was overjoyed to think of the happiness in store for Madame Georges, who would thus, at length, see again that son so long and vainly sought.

Rigolette now returned, with a joyful eye and smiling lips.

"Well, did not I tell you so?" she exclaimed. "I am not deceived: we shall have spent six hundred and forty francs all together, and the Morels will be set up like princes. Here come the shopkeepers; are they not loaded? Nothing will now be wanting for the family; they will have everything requisite, even to a gridiron, two newly tinned saucepans, and a coffee-pot. I said to myself, since they are to have things done so grandly, let them be grand; and, with all that, I shall not have lost more than three hours. But come, neighbour, pay as quickly as you can, and let us be gone. It will soon be noon, and my needle must go at a famous rate to make up for this morning."

Rodolph paid, and quitted the Temple with Rigolette.

At the moment when the grisette and her companion were entering the passage, they were almost knocked over by Madame Pipelet, who was running out, frightened, troubled, and aghast.

"Mercy on us!" said Rigolette, "what ails you, Madame Pipelet? Where are you running to in that manner?"

"Is it you, Mlle. Rigolette?" exclaimed Anastasie; "it is Providence that sends you; help me to save the life of Alfred."

"What do you mean?"

"The darling old duck has fainted. Have mercy on us! Run for me, and get me two sous' worth of absinthe at the dram-shop,—the strongest, mind; it is his remedy when he is indisposed in the pylorus,—that generally sets him up again. Be kind, and do not refuse me, I can then return to Alfred; I am all over in such a fluster."

Rigolette let go Rodolph's arm, and ran quickly to the dram-shop.

"But what has happened, Madame Pipelet?" inquired Rodolph, following the porteress into the lodge.

"How can I tell, my worthy sir? I had gone out to the mayor's, to church, and the cook-shop, to save Alfred so much trotting about; I returned, and what should I see but the dear old cosset with his legs and arms all in the air! There, M. Rodolph," said Anastasie, opening the door of her dog-hole, "say if that is not enough to break one's heart!"

Lamentable spectacle! With his bell-crowned hat still on his head, even further on than usual, for the ambiguous castor, pushed down, no doubt, by violence, to judge by a transverse gap, covered M. Pipelet's eyes, who was on his back on the ground at the foot of his bed. The fainting was over, and Alfred was beginning to make some slight gesticulations with his hands, as if he sought to repulse somebody or something, and then he tried to push off this troublesome visor, with which he had been bonneted.

"He kicks,—that's a beautiful symptom! He comes to!" exclaimed the porteress, who, stooping down, bawled in his ears, "What's the matter with my Alfred? It's his 'Stasie who is with him. How goes it now? There's some absinthe coming, that will set you up." Then, assuming a falsetto voice of much endearment, she added: "What, did they abuse and assassinate him,—the dear old darling, the delight of his 'Stasie, eh?"

Alfred heaved an immense sigh, and, with a mighty groan, uttered the fatal word:

"Cabrion!"

And his tremulous hands again seemed desirous of repulsing the fearful vision.

"Cabrion! What, that cussed painter again?" exclaimed Madame Pipelet. "Alfred dreamed of him all night long, so that he kicked me almost to death. This monster is his nightmare; not only does he poison his days, but he poisons his nights also,—he pursues him in his very sleep; yes, sir, as though Alfred was a malefactor, and this Cabrion, whom may Heaven confound! was his unceasing remorse."

Rodolph smiled, discreetly detecting some new freak of Rigolette's former neighbour.

"Alfred! answer me; don't remain mute, you frighten me," said Madame Pipelet; "let's try and get you up. Why, lovey, do you keep thinking of that vagabond fellow? You know that, when you think of that fellow, it has the same effect on you that cabbage has,—it fills up your pylorus and stifles you."

"Cabrion!" repeated M. Pipelet, pushing up, with an effort, the hat which had fallen so low over his eyes, which he rolled around him with an affrighted air.

Rigolette entered, carrying a small bottle of absinthe.

"Thankee, ma'amselle, you are so kind!" said the old body; and then she added, "Come, deary, suck this down, that will make you all right."

And Anastasie, presenting the phial quickly to M. Pipelet's lips, contrived to make him swallow the absinthe. In vain did Alfred struggle vigorously. His wife, taking advantage of the victim's weakness, held up his head firmly with one hand, whilst with the other she introduced the neck of the little bottle between his teeth, and compelled him to swallow the absinthe, after which she exclaimed, triumphantly:

"Ther-r-r-r-e, now-w-w! you're on your pins again, my ducky!"

And Alfred, having wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, opened his eyes, rose, and inquired, in accents of alarm:

"Have you seen him?"

"Who?"

"Is he gone?"

"Who, Alfred?"

"Cabrion!"

"Has he dared—" asked the porteress.

M. Pipelet, as mute as the statue of the commandant, like that redoubtable spectre, bowed his head twice with an affirmative air.

"What! has M. Cabrion been here?" inquired Rigolette, repressing a violent desire to laugh.

"What! has the monster been unchained on Alfred?" said Madame Pipelet. "Oh, if I had been there with my broom, he should have swallowed it, handle and all! But tell us, Alfred, all about this horrid affair."

M. Pipelet made signs with his hand that he was about to speak, and they listened to the man with the bell-crowned hat in religious silence, whilst he expressed himself in these terms, and in a voice of deep emotion:

"My wife had left me, to save me the trouble of going out, according to the request of monsieur," bowing to Rodolph, "to the mayor's, to church, and the cook-shop."

"The dear old darling had had the nightmare all night, and I wished to save him the journey," said Anastasie.

"This nightmare was sent me as a warning from on high," responded the porter, religiously. "I had dreamed of Cabrion, and I was to suffer from Cabrion. Here was I sitting quietly in front of my table, reflecting on an alteration which I wished to make in the upper leather of this boot confided to my hands, when I heard a noise, a rustling, at the window of my lodge,—was it a presentiment, a warning from on high? My heart beat, I lifted up my head, and, through the pane of glass, I saw—I saw—"

"Cabrion!" exclaimed Anastasie, clasping her hands.

"Cabrion!" replied M. Pipelet, gloomily. "His hideous face was there, pressed close against the window, and he was looking at me with eyes like a cat's—what do I say?—a tiger's! just as in my dream. I tried to speak, but my tongue clave to my mouth; I tried to rise, I was nailed to my seat. My boot fell from my hands, and, as in all the critical and important events of my life, I remained perfectly motionless. Then the key turned in the lock, the door opened,—Cabrion entered!"

"He entered? Owdacious monster!" replied Madame Pipelet, as much astonished as her spouse at such audacity.

"He entered slowly," resumed Alfred, "stopped a moment at the threshold, as if to fascinate me with his look, atrocious as it was, then he advanced towards me, pausing at each step, and piercing me through with his eye, but not uttering a word,—straight, mute, and threatening as a phantom!"

"I declare, my very heart aches to hear him," said Anastasie.

"I remained still more motionless, and glued to my chair; Cabrion still advanced slowly towards me, fixing his eye as the serpent glares at the bird; he so frightened me that, in spite of myself, I kept my eye on him; he came close to me, and then I could no longer endure his revolting aspect, it was too much, and I could not. I shut my eyes, and then I felt that he dared to place his hands upon my hat, which he took by the crown and lifted gently off my head, leaving it bare. I began to be seized with vertigo, my breathing was suspended, there was a singing in my ears, and I was completely fastened to my seat, and I closed my eyes still closer and closer. Then Cabrion stooped, took my head between his hands, which were as cold as death, and on my forehead, covered with an icy damp, he deposited a brazen kiss, indecent wretch!"

Anastasie lifted her hands towards heaven.

"My enemy, the most deadly, imprinted a kiss on my forehead; such a monstrosity overcame and paralysed me. Cabrion profited by my stupor to place my hat on my head, and then, with a blow of his fist, drove it down over my eyes, as you saw. This last outrage destroyed me; the measure was full, all about me was turning around, and I fainted at the moment when I saw him, from under the rim of my hat, leave the lodge as quietly and slowly as he had entered."

Then, as if the recital had exhausted all his strength, M. Pipelet fell back in his chair, raising his hands to heaven in a manner of mute imprecation. Rigolette went out quickly; she could not restrain herself any longer; her desire to laugh almost stifled her. Rodolph had the greatest difficulty to keep his countenance.

Suddenly there was a confused murmur, such as announces the arrival of a mob, heard from the street, and a great noise came from the door at the top of the entrance, and then butts of grounded muskets were heard on the steps of the door.

CHAPTER II.

THE ARREST.

"Good gracious! M. Rodolph," exclaimed Rigolette, running in, pale and trembling, "a commissary of police and the guard have come here."

"Divine justice watches over me," said M. Pipelet, in a transport of pious gratitude. "They have come to arrest Cabrion; unfortunately it is too late."

A commissary of police, wearing his tricoloured scarf around his waist underneath his black coat, entered the lodge. His countenance was impressive, magisterial, and serious.

"M. le Commissaire is too late; the malefactor has escaped," said M. Pipelet, in a sorrowful voice; "but I will give you his description,—villainous smile, impudent look, insulting—"

"Of whom do you speak?" inquired the magistrate.

"Of Cabrion, M. le Commissaire; but, perhaps, if you make all haste, it is not yet too late to catch him," added M. Pipelet.

"I know nothing about any Cabrion," said the magistrate, impatiently. "Does one Jérome Morel, a working lapidary, live in this house?"

"Yes, mon commissaire," said Madame Pipelet, putting herself into a military attitude.

"Conduct me to his apartment."

"Morel, the lapidary!" said the porteress, excessively surprised; "why, he is the mildest lambkin in the world. He is incapable of—"

"Does Jérome Morel live here or not?"

"He lives here, sir, with his family, in one of the attics."

"Lead me to his attic."

Then, addressing himself to a man who accompanied him, the magistrate said:

"Let two of the municipal guard wait below, and not leave the entrance. Send Justing for a hackney-coach."

The man left the lodge to put these orders in execution.

"Now," continued the magistrate, addressing himself to M. Pipelet, "lead me to Morel."

"If it is all the same to you, mon commissaire, I will do that for Alfred; he is indisposed from Cabrion's behaviour, which, just as the cabbage does, troubles his pylorus."

"You or your husband, it is no matter which. Go forward."

And, preceded by Madame Pipelet, he ascended the staircase, but soon stopped when he saw Rodolph and Rigolette following him.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" he inquired.

"They are two lodgers in the fourth story," said Madame Pipelet.

"I beg your pardon, sir, I did not know that you belonged to the house," said he to Rodolph.

The latter, auguring well from the polite behaviour of the magistrate, said to him:

"You are going to see a family in a state of deep misery, sir. I do not know what fresh stroke of ill fortune threatens this unhappy artisan, but he has been cruelly tried last night,—one of his daughters, worn down by illness, is dead before his eyes,—dead from cold and misery."

"Is it possible?"

"It is, indeed, the fact, mon commissaire," said Madame Pipelet. "But for this gentleman who speaks to you, and who is a king of lodgers, for he has saved poor Morel from prison by his generosity, the whole family of the lapidary must have died of hunger."

The commissary looked at Rodolph with equal surprise and interest.

"Nothing is more easily explained, sir," said Rodolph. "A person who is very charitable, learning that Morel, whose honour and honesty I will guarantee to you, was in a most deplorable and unmerited state of distress, authorised me to pay a bill of exchange for which the bailiffs were about to drag off to prison this poor workman, the sole support of his numerous family."

The magistrate, in his turn, struck by the noble physiognomy of Rodolph, as well as the dignity of his manners, replied:

"I have no doubt of Morel's probity. I only regret I have to fulfil a painful duty in your presence, sir, who have so deeply interested yourself in this family."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"From the services you have rendered to the Morels, and your language, I see, sir, that you are a worthy person. Having, besides, no reason for concealing the object of the warrant which I have to execute, I will confess to you that I am about to apprehend Louise Morel, the lapidary's daughter."

The recollection of the rouleau of gold, offered to the bailiffs by the young girl, occurred to Rodolph.

"Of what is she then accused?"

"She lies under a charge of child-murder."

"She! she! Oh, her poor father!"

"From what you have told me, sir, I imagine that, under the miserable circumstances in which this artisan is, this fresh blow will be terrible for him. Unfortunately, I must carry out the full instructions with which I am charged."

"But it is at present only an accusation?" asked Rodolph. "Proofs, no doubt, are still wanting?"

"I cannot tell you more on that point. Justice has been informed of this crime, or rather the presumptive crime, by the statement of an individual most respectable in every particular, Louise Morel's master."

"Jacques Ferrand, the notary?" said Rodolph, with indignation.

"Yes, sir—"

"M. Jacques Ferrand is a wretch, sir!"

"I am pained to see that you do not know the person of whom you speak, sir. M. Jacques Ferrand is one of the most honourable men in the world; his rectitude is universally recognised."

"I repeat to you, sir, that this notary is a wretch. It was he who sought to send Morel to prison because his daughter repulsed his libidinous proposals. If Louise is only accused on the denunciation of such a man, you must own, sir, that the charge deserves but very little credit."

"It is not my affair, sir, and I am very glad of it, to discuss the depositions of M. Ferrand," said the magistrate, coldly. "Justice is informed in this matter, and it is for a court of law to decide. As for me, I have a warrant to apprehend Louise Morel, and that warrant I must put into execution."

"You are quite right, sir, and I regret that an impulse of feeling, however just, should have made me forget for a moment that this was neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. One word only: the corpse of the child which Morel has lost is still in the attic, and I have offered my apartments to the family to spare them the sad spectacle of the dead body. You will, therefore, find the lapidary, and possibly his daughter, in my rooms. I entreat you, sir, in the name of humanity, do not apprehend Louise abruptly in the midst of the unhappy family only a short time since snatched from their state of utter wretchedness. Morel has had so many shocks during this night that it is really to be feared his reason may sink under it; already his wife is dangerously ill, and such a blow would kill him."

"Sir, I have always executed my orders with every possible consideration, and I shall act similarly now."

"Will you allow me, sir, to ask you one favour? It is this: the young female who is following us occupies an apartment close to mine, which, I have no doubt, she would place at your disposal. You could, in the first instance, send for Louise, and, if necessary, for Morel afterwards, that his daughter may take leave of him. You will thus save a poor sick and infirm mother from a very distressing scene."

"Most willingly, sir, if it can be so arranged."

The conversation we have just described was carried on in an undertone, whilst Rigolette and Madame Pipelet kept away discreetly a few steps' distance from the commissary and Rodolph. The latter then went to the grisette, whom the presence of the commissary had greatly affrighted, and said to her:

"My good little neighbour, I want another service from you,—I want you to leave your room at my disposal for the next hour."

"As long as you please, M. Rodolph. You have the key. But, oh, say what is the matter?"

"I will tell you all by and by. But I want something more; you must return to the Temple, and tell them not to bring our purchases here for the next hour."

"To be sure I will, M. Rodolph; but has any fresh misfortune befallen the Morels?"

"Alas! yes, something very sad indeed, which you will learn but too soon."

"Well, then, neighbour, I will run to the Temple. Alas, alas! I was thinking that, thanks to your kindness, these poor people had been quite relieved from their trouble!" said the grisette, who then descended the staircase very quickly.

Rodolph had been very desirous of sparing Rigolette the distressing scene of Louise Morel's arrest.

"Mon commissaire," said Madame Pipelet, "since my king of lodgers will direct you, I may return to my Alfred. I am uneasy about him, for when I left him he had hardly recovered from his indisposition which Cabrion had caused."

"Go, go," said the magistrate, who was thus left alone with Rodolph.

They both ascended to the landing-place on the fourth story, at the door of the chamber in which the lapidary and his family had been temporarily established.

Suddenly the door opened. Louise, pale and in tears, came out quickly.

"Adieu, adieu, father!" she exclaimed. "I will come back again, but I must go now."

"Louise, my child, listen to me a moment," said Morel, following his daughter, and endeavouring to detain her.

At the sight of Rodolph and the magistrate, Louise and the lapidary remained motionless.

"Ah, sir, you, our kind benefactor!" said the artisan, recognising Rodolph, "assist me in preventing Louise from leaving us. I do not know what is the matter with her, but she quite frightens me, she is so determined to go. Now there is no occasion for her to return to her master, is there, sir? Did you not say to me, 'Louise shall not again leave you, and that will recompense you for much that you have suffered?' Ah! at that kind promise, I confess that for a moment I had forgot the death of my poor little Adèle; but I must not again be separated from thee, Louise, oh, never, never!"

Rodolph was wounded to the heart, and was unable to utter a word in reply.

The commissary said sternly to Louise:

"Is your name Louise Morel?"

"Yes, sir," replied the young girl, quite overcome.

"You are Jérome Morel, her father?" added the magistrate, addressing the lapidary.

Rodolph had opened the door of Rigolette's apartment.

"Yes, sir; but—"

"Go in there with your daughter."

And the magistrate pointed to Rigolette's chamber, into which Rodolph had already entered.

Reassured by his preserver, the lapidary and Louise, astonished and uneasy, did as the commissary desired them.

The commissary shut the door, and said with much feeling to Morel:

"I know that you are honest and unfortunate, and it is, therefore, with regret that I tell you that I am here in the name of the law to apprehend your daughter."

"All is discovered,—I am lost!" cried Louise, in agony, and throwing herself into her father's arms.

"What do you say? What do you say?" inquired Morel, stupefied. "You are mad! What do you mean by lost? Apprehend you! Why apprehend you? Who has come to apprehend you?"

"I, and in the name of the law;" and the commissary showed his scarf.

"Oh, wretched, wretched girl!" exclaimed Louise, falling on her knees.

"What! in the name of the law?" said the artisan, whose reason, severely shaken by this fresh blow, began to totter. "Why apprehend my daughter in the name of the law? I will answer for Louise, I will,—this my child, my good child, ain't you, Louise? What! apprehend you, when our good angel has restored you to us to console us for the death of our poor, dear little Adèle? Come, come, this can't be. And then, to speak respectfully, M. le Commissaire, they apprehend none but the bad, you know; and my Louise is not bad. So you see, my dear, the good gentleman is mistaken. My name is Morel, but there are other Morels; you are Louise, but there are other Louises; so you see, M. le Commissaire, there is a mistake, certainly some mistake!"

"Unhappily there is no mistake. Louise Morel, take leave of your father!"

"What! are you going to take my daughter away?" exclaimed the workman, furious with grief, and advancing towards the magistrate with a menacing air.

Rodolph seized the lapidary by the arm, and said to him:

"Be calm, and hope for the best; your daughter will be restored to you; her innocence must be proved; she cannot be guilty."

"Guilty of what? She is not guilty of anything. I will put my hand in the fire if—" Then, remembering the gold which Louise had brought to pay the bill with, Morel cried, "But the money—that money you had this morning, Louise!" And he gave his daughter a terrible look.

Louise understood it.

"I rob!" she exclaimed; and her cheeks suffused with generous indignation, her tone and gesture, reassured her father.

"I knew it well enough!" he exclaimed. "You see, M. le Commissaire, she denies it; and I swear to you, that she never told me a lie in her life; and everybody that knows her will say the same thing as I do. She lie! Oh, no, she is too proud to do that! And, then, the bill has been paid by our benefactor. The gold she does not wish to keep, but will return it to the person who lent it to her, desiring him not to tell any one; won't you, Louise?"

"Your daughter is not accused of theft," said the magistrate.

"Well, then, what is the charge against her? I, her father, swear to you that she is innocent of whatever crime they may accuse her of, and I never told a lie in my life either."

"Why should you know what she is charged with?" said Rodolph, moved by his distress. "Louise's innocence will be proved; the person who takes so great an interest in you will protect your daughter. Come, come! Courage, courage! This time Providence will not forsake you. Embrace your daughter, and you will soon see her again."

"M. le Commissaire," cried Morel, not attending to Rodolph, "you are going to deprive a father of his daughter without even naming the crime of which she is accused! Let me know all! Louise, why don't you speak?"

"Your daughter is accused of child-murder," said the magistrate.

"I—I—I—child-mur—I don't—you—"

And Morel, aghast, stammered incoherently.

"Your daughter is accused of having killed her child," said the commissary, deeply touched at this scene; "but it is not yet proved that she has committed this crime."

"Oh, no, I have not, sir! I have not!" exclaimed Louise, energetically, and rising; "I swear to you that it was dead. It never breathed,—it was cold. I lost my senses,—this is my crime. But kill my child! Oh, never, never!"

"Your child, abandoned girl!" cried Morel, raising his hands towards Louise, as if he would annihilate her by this gesture and imprecation.

"Pardon, father, pardon!" she exclaimed.

After a moment's fearful silence, Morel resumed, with a calm that was even more frightful:

"M. le Commissaire, take away that creature; she is not my child!"

The lapidary turned to leave the room; but Louise threw herself at his knees, around which she clung with both arms; and, with her head thrown back, distracted and supplicating, she exclaimed:

"Father, hear me! Only hear me!"

"M. le Commissaire, away with her, I beseech you! I leave her to you," said the lapidary, struggling to free himself from Louise's embrace.

"Listen to her," said Rodolph, holding him; "do not be so pitiless."

"To her! To her!" repeated Morel, lifting his two hands to his forehead, "to a dishonoured wretch! A wanton! Oh, a wanton!"

"But, if she were dishonoured through her efforts to save you?" said Rodolph to him in a low voice.

These words made a sudden and painful impression on Morel, and he cast his eyes on his weeping child still on her knees before him; then, with a searching look, impossible to describe, he cried in a hollow voice, clenching his teeth with rage:

"The notary?"

An answer came to Louise's lips. She was about to speak, but paused,—no doubt a reflection,—and, bending down her head, remained silent.

"No, no; he sought to imprison me this morning!" continued Morel, with a violent burst. "Can it be he? Ah, so much the better, so much the better! She has not even an excuse for her crime; she never thought of me in her dishonour, and I may curse her without remorse."

"No, no; do not curse me, my father! I will tell you all,—to you alone, and you will see—you will see whether or not I deserve your forgiveness."

"For pity's sake, hear her!" said Rodolph to him.

"What will she tell me,—her infamy? That will soon be public, and I can wait till then."

"Sir," said Louise, addressing the magistrate, "for pity's sake, leave me alone with my father, that I may say a few words to him before I leave him, perhaps for ever; and before you, also, our benefactor, I will speak; but only before you and my father."

"Be it so," said the magistrate.

"Will you be pitiless, and refuse this last consolation to your child?" asked Rodolph of Morel. "If you think you owe me any gratitude for the kindness which I have been enabled to show you, consent to your daughter's entreaties."

After a moment's sad and angry silence, Morel replied:

"I will."

"But where shall we go!" inquired Rodolph; "your family are in the other room."

"Where shall we go," exclaimed the lapidary, with a bitter irony, "where shall we go? Up above,—up above, into the garret, by the side of the body of my dead daughter; that spot will well suit a confession, will it not? Come along, come, and we will see if Louise will dare to tell a lie in the presence of her sister's corpse. Come! Come along!"

And Morel went out hastily with a wild air, and turning his face from Louise.

"Sir," said the commissary to Rodolph, in an undertone, "I beg you for this poor man's sake not to protract this conversation. You were right when you said his reason was touched; just now his look was that of a madman."

"Alas, sir, I am equally fearful with yourself of some fresh and terrible disaster! I will abridge as much as I can this most painful farewell."

And Rodolph rejoined the lapidary and his daughter.

However strange and painful Morel's determination might appear, it was really the only thing that, under the circumstances, could be done. The magistrate consented to await the issue of this conversation in Rigolette's chamber; the Morel family were occupying Rodolph's apartment, and there was only the garret at liberty; and it was into this horrid retreat that Louise, her father, and Rodolph betook themselves. Sad and affecting sight!

In the middle of the attic which we have already described, there lay, stretched on the idiot's mattress, the body of the little girl who had died in the morning, now covered by a ragged cloth. The unusual and clear light, reflected through the narrow skylight, threw the figures of the three actors in this scene into bold relief. Rodolph, standing up, was leaning with his back against the wall, deeply moved. Morel, seated at the edge of his working-bench, with his head bent, his hands hanging listless by his sides, whilst his gaze, fixed and fierce, rested on, and did not quit, the mattress on which the remains of his poor little Adèle were deposited. At this spectacle, the anger and indignation of the lapidary subsided, and were changed to inexpressible bitterness; his energy left him, and he was utterly prostrated beneath this fresh blow. Louise, who was ghastly pale, felt her strength forsake her. The revelation she was about to make terrified her. Still she ventured, tremblingly, to take her father's hand,—that miserable and shrivelled hand, withered and wasted by excess of toil. The lapidary did not withdraw it, and then his daughter, sobbing as if her heart would burst, covered it with kisses, and felt it slightly pressed against her lips. Morel's wrath had ended, and then his tears, long repressed, flowed freely and bitterly.

"Oh, father, if you only knew!" exclaimed Louise; "if you only knew how much I am to be pitied!"

"Oh, Louise, this, this will be the heaviest bitter in my cup for the rest of my life,—all my life long," replied the lapidary, weeping terribly. "You, you in prison,—in the same bench with criminals; you so proud when you had a right to be proud! No," he resumed in a fresh burst of grief and despair, "no; I would rather have seen you in your shroud beside your poor little sister!"

"And I, I would sooner be there!" replied Louise.

"Be silent, unhappy girl, you pain me. I was wrong to say so; I have been too harsh. Come, speak; but in the name of Heaven, do not lie. However frightful the truth may be, yet tell it me all; let me learn it from your lips, and it will be less cruel. Speak, for, alas! our moments are counted, they are waiting for you down below. Ah, just Heaven, what a sad, sad parting!"

"My father, I will tell you all,—everything," replied Louise, taking courage; "but promise me—and our kind benefactor must promise me also—not to repeat this to any person,—to any person. If he knew that I had told!—oh," and she shuddered as she spoke, "you would be destroyed, destroyed as I am; for you know not the power and ferocity of this man."

"What man?"

"My master!"

"The notary?"

"Yes," said Louise in a whisper, and looking around her as if she feared to be overheard.

"Take courage," said Rodolph; "no matter how cruel and powerful this man may be, we will defeat him! Besides, if I reveal what you are about to tell us, it would only be in the interest of yourself or your father."

"And me too, Louise, if I speak, it would be in endeavouring to save you. But what has this villain done?"

"This is not all," said Louise, after a moment's reflection; "in this recital there will be a person implicated who has rendered me a great service, who has shown the utmost kindness to my father and family; this person was in the employ of M. Ferrand when I entered his service, and he made me take an oath not to disclose his name."

Rodolph, believing that she referred to Germain, said to Louise:

"If you mean François Germain, make your mind tranquil, his secret shall be kept by your father and myself."

Louise looked at Rodolph with surprise.

"Do you know him?" said she.

"What! was the good, excellent young man, who lived here for three months, employed at the notary's when you went to his service?" said Morel. "The first time you met him here, you appeared as if you had never seen him before."

"It was agreed between us, father; he had serious reasons why he did not wish it known that he was working at M. Ferrand's. It was I who told him of the room to let on the fourth story here, knowing that he would be a good neighbour for you."

"But," inquired Rodolph, "who, then, placed your daughter at the notary's?"

"During the illness of my wife, I said to Madame Burette—the woman who advanced money on pledges, who lived in this house—that Louise wished to get into service in order to assist us. Madame Burette knew the notary's housekeeper, and gave me a letter to her, in which she recommended Louise as a very good girl. Cursed letter! it was the cause of all our misfortune. This was the way, sir, that my daughter got into the notary's service."

"Although I know some of the causes which excited M. Ferrand's hatred against your father," said Rodolph to Louise, "I beg you to tell me as shortly as possible what passed between you and the notary after your entering into his service; it may, perhaps, be useful for your defence."

"When I first went into M. Ferrand's house," said Louise, "I had nothing to complain of with respect to him. I had a great deal to do, and the housekeeper often scolded me, and the house was very dull; but I endured everything very patiently. Service is service, and, perhaps, elsewhere I should have other disagreeables. M. Ferrand was a very stern-looking person; he went to mass, and frequently had priests in his house. I did not at all distrust him; for at first he hardly ever looked at me, spoke short and cross, especially when there were any strangers. Except the porter who lived at the entrance, in the same part of the house as the office is in, I was the only servant, with Madame Séraphin, the housekeeper. The pavilion that we occupied was isolated between the court and the garden. My bedroom was high up. I was often afraid, being, as I was, always alone, either in the kitchen, which is underground, or in my bedroom. One day I had worked very late mending some things that were required in a hurry, and then I was going to bed, when I heard footsteps moving quietly in the little passage at the end of which my room was situated; some one stopped at my door. At first I supposed it was the housekeeper; but, as no one entered, I began to be alarmed. I dared not move, but I listened; however, I heard no one; yet I was sure that there was some one behind my door. I asked twice who was there, but no one answered; I then pushed my chest of drawers against the door, which had neither lock nor bolt. I still listened, but nothing stirred; so at the end of half an hour, which seemed very long to me, I threw myself on my bed, and the night passed quietly. The next morning I asked the housekeeper's leave to have a bolt put on my door, which had no fastening, telling her of my fright on the previous night, and she told me I had been dreaming, and that, if I wanted a bolt, I must ask M. Ferrand for it. When I asked him, he shrugged up his shoulders, and said I was crazy; so I did not dare say any more about it. Some time after this, the misfortune about the diamond happened. My father in his despair did not know what to do. I told Madame Séraphin of his distress, and she replied; 'Monsieur is so charitable, perhaps he will do something for your father.' The same afternoon, when I was waiting at table, M. Ferrand said to me, suddenly, 'Your father is in want of thirteen hundred francs; go and tell him to come to my office this evening, and he shall have the money.' At this mark of kindness I burst into tears, and did not know how to thank him, when he said, with his usual bluntness, 'Very good, very good; oh, what I do is nothing!' The same evening, after my work, I came to my father to tell him the good news; the next day—"

"I had the thirteen hundred francs, giving him my acceptance in blank at three months' date," said Morel. "I did like Louise, and wept with gratitude, called this man my benefactor. Oh, what a wretch must he be thus to destroy the gratitude and veneration I entertained for him!"

"This precaution of making you give him a blank acceptance, at a date falling due so soon that you could not meet it, must have raised your suspicion?" said Rodolph.

"No, sir, I only thought the notary took it for security, that was all; besides, he told me that I need not think about repaying this sum in less than two years; but that, every three months, the bill should be renewed for the sake of greater regularity. It was, however, duly presented here on the day it became due, but, as you may suppose, was not paid. The usual course of law was followed up, and judgment was obtained against me in the name of a third party. All this I was desired not to feel any uneasiness respecting, as it had been caused by an error on the part of the officer in whose hands the bill had been placed."

"His motive is very evident," said Rodolph; "he wished to have you entirely in his power."

"Alas, sir, it was from the very day in which he obtained judgment that he commenced! But, go on, Louise, go on. I scarcely know where I am. My head seems giddy and bewildered, and at times my memory entirely fails me. I fear my senses are leaving me, and that I shall become mad. Oh, this is too much—too hard to bear!"

Rodolph having succeeded in tranquillising the lapidary, Louise thus proceeded:

"With a view to prove my gratitude to M. Ferrand for all his kindness towards my family, I redoubled my endeavours to serve him well and faithfully. From that time the housekeeper appeared to take an utter aversion to me, and to embrace every opportunity of rendering me uncomfortable, continually exposing me to anger by withholding from me the various orders given by M. Ferrand. All this made me extremely miserable, and I would gladly have sought another place; but the knowledge of my father's pecuniary obligation to my master prevented my following my inclinations.

"The money had now been lent about three months, and, though M. Ferrand still continued harsh and unkind to me in the presence of Madame Séraphin, he began casting looks of a peculiar and embarrassing description at me whenever he could do so unobserved, and would smile and seem amused when he perceived the confusion it occasioned me."

"Take notice, I beg, sir, that it was at this very time the necessary legal proceedings, for enabling him at any moment to deprive me of my liberty, were going on."

"One day," said Louise, in continuation, "the housekeeper went out directly after dinner, contrary to her usual custom; the clerks, none of whom lived in the house, were dismissed from further duty for the day, and retired to their respective homes; the porter was sent out on a message, leaving M. Ferrand and myself alone in the house. I was doing some needlework Madame Séraphin had given me, and by her orders was sitting in a small antechamber, from whence I could hear if I was wanted. After some time the bell of my master's bedroom rang; I went there immediately, and upon entering found him standing before the fire. As I approached he turned around suddenly and caught me in his arms. Alarm and surprise at first deprived me of power to move; but, spite of his great strength, I at last struggled so successfully, that I managed to free myself from his grasp, and, running back with all speed to the room I had just quitted, I hastily shut the door, and held it with all my force. Unfortunately, the key was on the other side."

"You hear, sir,—you hear," said Morel to Rodolph, "the manner in which this generous benefactor behaved to the daughter of the man he affected to serve!"

"At the end of a few minutes," continued Louise, "the door yielded to the efforts of M. Ferrand. Fortunately, the lamp by which I had been working was within my reach, and I precipitately extinguished it. The antechamber was at some distance from his bedchamber, and we were, therefore, left in utter darkness. At first he called me by name; but, finding that I did not reply, he exclaimed, in a voice trembling with rage and passion, 'If you try to escape from me, your father shall go to prison for the thirteen hundred francs he owes, and is unable to pay.' I besought him to have pity on me, promised to do all in my power to serve him faithfully, and with gratitude for all his goodness to my family, but declared that no consideration on earth should induce me to disgrace myself or those I belonged to."

"There spoke my Louise," said Morel, "or, rather, as she would have spoken in her days of proud innocence. How, then, if such were your sentiments—But go on, go on."

"I was still concealed by the darkness, which I trusted would preserve me, when I heard the door closed which led from the antechamber, and which my master had contrived to find by groping along the wall. Thus, having me wholly in his power, he returned to his chamber for a light, with which he quickly returned, and then commenced a fresh attack, the particulars of which, my dearest father, I will not venture to describe; suffice it, that promises, threats, violence, all were tried; but anger, fear, and despair armed me with fresh strength, and, while I continually eluded his grasp, and fled for safety from room to room, his rage at my determined resistance knew no bounds. In his fury he even struck me with such frenzied violence as to leave my features streaming with blood."

"You hear! you hear!" exclaimed the lapidary, raising his clasped hands towards heaven, "and are crimes like this to go unpunished? Shall such a monster escape and not pay a heavy penalty for his wickedness?"

"Trust me," said Rodolph, who seemed profoundly meditating on what he heard, "trust me, this man's time and hour will come. But continue your painful narration, my poor girl, and shrink not from telling us even its blackest details."

"The struggle between us had now gone on so long that my strength began to fail me. I was conscious of my own inability to resist further, when the porter, who had returned home, rang the bell twice,—the usual signal when letters arrived and required to be fetched from his hands. Fearing that, if I did not obey the summons, the porter would bring the letters himself, M. Ferrand said, 'Go; utter but one word, and to-morrow sees your father in prison. If you endeavour to quit this house, the consequences will fall on him; and, as for you, I will take care no one shall take you into their house, for, without exactly affirming it, I will contrive to make every one think you have robbed me. Then, should any person refer to me for your character, I shall speak of you as an idle, unworthy girl whom I could keep no longer.'

"The following day after this scene, spite of the menaces of my master, I ran home to complain to my father of the unkind usage I received, without daring, however, to tell him all. His first desire was for me to quit the house of M. Ferrand without delay. But, then, a prison would close upon my poor parent; added to which, my small earnings had become indispensably necessary to our family since the illness of my mother, and the bad character promised me by M. Ferrand might possibly have prevented me from finding another service for a very long time."