"Yes," said Morel, with gloomy bitterness, "we were selfish and cowardly enough to allow our poor child to return to that accursed roof. Oh, I spoke truly when I said, 'Want, want, what mean, what degrading acts do you not force us to commit!'"

"Alas, dear father, did you not try by every possible means to procure these thirteen hundred francs? And, that being impossible, there was nothing left but to submit ourselves to our fate."

"Go on, go on; your parents have been your executioners, and we are far more guilty than yourself of all the fearful consequences!" exclaimed the lapidary, concealing his face with his hands.

"When I next saw my master," said Louise, "he had resumed the harsh and severe manner with which he ordinarily treated me. He made not the slightest reference to the scene I have just related, while his housekeeper persisted in her accustomed tormenting and unkind behaviour towards me, giving me scarcely sufficient food to maintain my strength, and even locking the bread up so that I could not help myself to a morsel; she would even carry her cruelty so far as to wilfully spoil and damage the morsels left by herself and M. Ferrand for my repasts, I always taking my meals after my master and the housekeeper, who invariably sat down to table together. My nights were as painful as my days. I durst not indulge in sleep, lest I should be surprised by the entrance of the notary. I had no means of securing my chamber door, and the chest of drawers with which I used to fasten myself in had been taken away, leaving me only a small table, a chair, and my box. With these articles I barricaded the door as well as I could, and merely lay down in my clothes, ready to start up at the least noise. Some time elapsed, however, without my having any further alarm as regarded M. Ferrand, who seemed to have altogether forgotten me, and seldom bestowed even a look on me. By degrees my fears died away, and I became almost persuaded I had nothing more to dread from the persecutions of my master. One Sunday I had permission to visit my home, and with extreme delight hastened to announce the happy change that had taken place to my parents. Oh, how we all rejoiced to think so! Up to that moment, my dear father, you know all that occurred. What I have still to tell you," murmured Louise, as her voice sunk into an inarticulate whisper, "is so dreadful that I have never dared reveal it."

"I was sure, ah, too sure," cried Morel, with a wildness of manner and rapidity of utterance which startled and alarmed Rodolph, "that you were hiding something from me. Too plainly did I perceive, by your pale and altered countenance, that your mind was burthened with some heavy secret. Many a time have I said so to your mother; but she, poor thing! would not listen to me, and even blamed me for making myself unnecessarily miserable. So you see, that weakly, and selfish to escape from trouble ourselves, we allowed our poor, helpless child to remain under this monster's roof. And to what have we reduced our poor girl? Why, to be classed with the felons and criminals of a prison! See, see what comes of parents sacrificing their children. And, then, too, be it remembered—after all—who knows? True, we are poor—very poor, and may be guilty—yes, yes, quite right, guilty of throwing our daughter into shame and disgrace. But, then, see how wretched and distressed we were! Besides, such as we—" Then, as if suddenly striving to collect his bewildered ideas, Morel struck his forehead, exclaiming, "Alas! I know not what I say. My brain burns and my senses seem deserting me. A sort of bewilderment seems to come over me as though I were stupefied with drink. Alas, alas! I am going mad!" So saying, the unhappy man buried his face between his hands.

Unwilling that Louise should perceive the extent of his apprehensions as regarded the agitated state of the lapidary, and how much alarm he felt at his wild, incoherent language, Rodolph gravely replied:

"You are unjust, Morel; it was not for herself alone, but for her aged and afflicted parent, her children, and you, that your poor wife dreaded the consequences of Louise's quitting the notary's house. Accuse no one; but let all your just anger, your bitter curses, fall on the head that alone deserves it,—on that hypocritical monster who offered a weak and helpless girl the alternative of infamy or ruin; perhaps destruction; perhaps death to those she most tenderly loved,—on the fiend who could thus abuse the power he held, thus prey upon the tenderest, holiest feelings of a loving daughter, thus shamelessly outrage every moral and religious duty. But patience; as I before remarked, Providence frequently reserves for crimes so black as this a fearful and astounding retribution."

As Rodolph uttered these words, he spoke with a tone so expressive of his own conviction of the certain vengeance of Heaven, that Louise gazed at her preserver with a surprise not unmingled with fear.

"Go on, my poor girl," resumed Rodolph, addressing Louise; "conceal nothing from us: it is more important than you can be aware that you should relate the most minute details of your sad story."

Thus encouraged, Louise proceeded:

"I began, therefore, as I told you, to regain my tranquillity, when one evening both M. Ferrand and his housekeeper went out. They did not dine at home. I was quite alone in the house. As usual, my allowance of bread, wine, and water was left for me, and every place carefully locked. When I had finished my work, I took the food placed for me, and, having made my meal, I retired to my bedroom, thinking it less dull than remaining down-stairs by myself. I took care to leave a light in the hall for my master, as when he dined out no one ever sat up for him. Once in my chamber, I seated myself and commenced my sewing; but, contrary to my usual custom, I found the greatest difficulty in keeping myself awake. A heavy drowsiness seemed to steal over, and a weight like lead seemed to press on my eyelids. Alas, dear father!" cried Louise, interrupting herself as though frightened at her own recital, "I feel sure you will not credit what I am about to say, you will believe I am uttering falsehoods; and yet, here, over the lifeless body of my poor little sister, I swear to the truth of each word I speak."

"Explain yourself, my good girl," said Rodolph.

"Indeed, sir," answered Louise, "you ask me to do that I have been vainly trying to accomplish during the last seven months. In vain have I racked my brains to endeavour to account for the events of that fatal night. Sometimes I have almost grown distracted while trying to clear up this fearful and mysterious occurrence."

"Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed the lapidary, suddenly rousing from one of those fits of almost apathetic stupor into which he had occasionally fallen from the very commencement of this narration, "what dreadful thing is she going to tell us?"

"This lethargic feeling," continued Louise, "so completely overpowered me, that, unable any longer to resist it, I at length, contrary to my usual custom, fell asleep upon my chair. This is all I recollect before—before—Oh, forgive me, father, forgive me! indeed, indeed, I am not guilty; yet—"

"I believe you—I believe you; but proceed."

"I know not how long I slept; but when I awoke it was to shame and dishonour, for I found M. Ferrand beside me."

"'Tis false! 'tis false!" screamed the lapidary, in a tone of frenzied violence. "Confess that you yielded to violence or to the dread of seeing me dragged to prison, but do not seek to impose on me by falsehoods such as this."

"Father! father! I call Heaven to witness I am telling you the truth only."

"I tell you 'tis a base falsehood. Why should the notary have wished to throw me in prison, since you had freely yielded to his wishes?"

"Yielded! Oh, no, dear father, I would have died first! So deep was my sleep that it resembled that of death. It may seem to you both extraordinary and impossible, and I assure you that, up to the present hour, I myself have never been able to understand it or account for it—"

"But I can do so at once," said Rodolph, interrupting Louise. "This crime alone was wanting to complete the heavy calendar of that man's offences. Accuse not your daughter, Morel, of seeking to deceive you. Tell me, Louise, when you made your meal, before ascending to your chamber, did you not remark something peculiar in the taste of the wine given you to drink? Try and recollect this circumstance."

After reflecting a short time, Louise replied:

"Yes, I do indeed remember," answered she, "that the wine and water left for me as usual had a somewhat bitter taste; but I did not pay much attention to it, because the housekeeper would frequently, when spitefully inclined, amuse herself with throwing salt or pepper into what I drank."

"But, on the day you were describing, your wine had a bitter taste?"

"It had, sir, but not sufficiently so to prevent my drinking it; and I attributed it to the wine being turned."

Morel, with fixed eye and haggard look, listened both to the questions of Rodolph and the answers of Louise without appearing to understand to what they tended.

"And before falling asleep on your chair, did not your head seem unusually heavy, and your limbs weary?"

"Oh, yes, sir, I felt a fullness and throbbing in my temples, an icy coldness seemed to fill my veins, and a feeling of unusual discomfort oppressed me."

"Wretch, villainous wretch!" exclaimed Rodolph. "Are you aware, Morel, what this man made your poor child take in her wine?"

The artisan gazed at Rodolph without replying to his question.

"His accomplice, the housekeeper, had mingled in Louise's drink some sort of stupefying drug, most probably opium, by which means both the bodily and mental powers of your unfortunate daughter were completely paralysed for several hours; and when she awoke from this lethargic state it was to find herself dishonoured and disgraced."

"Ah, now," exclaimed Louise, "my misfortune is explained. You see, dear father, I am less guilty than you thought me. Father! dear, dear father! look upon me, bestow one little look of pity and of pardon on your poor Louise!"

But the glance of the lapidary was fixed and vacant; his honest mind could not comprehend the idea of so black, so monstrous a crime as that ascribed to the notary, and he gazed with blank wonder at the words he heard, as though quite unable to affix any meaning to them. And besides, during the latter part of the discourse, his intellect became evidently shaken, his ideas became a shapeless, confused mass of wandering recollections; a mere chaotic mass of griefs and sorrows possessed his brain, and he sank into a state of mental prostration, which is to intellect what darkness is to the sight,—the formidable symptoms of a weakened brain. After a pause of some length, Morel replied, in a low, hasty tone:

"Yes, yes; it is bad, very, very bad; cannot be worse!" and then relapsed into his former apathy; while Rodolph, watching him with pained attention, perceived that the energy, even of indignation, was becoming exhausted within the mind of the miserable father, in the same manner as excess of grief will frequently dry up the relief of tears. Anxious to put an end as quickly as possible to the present trying scene, Rodolph said to Louise:

"Proceed, my poor child, and let us have the remainder of this tissue of horrors."

"Alas, sir! what you have heard is as nothing to that which follows. When I perceived M. Ferrand by my side I uttered a cry of terror. My first impulse was to rush from the room, but M. Ferrand forcibly detained me; and I still felt so weak, so stupefied with the medicine you speak of as having been mingled in my drink, that I was powerless as an infant. 'Why do you wish to escape from me now?' inquired M. Ferrand, with an air of surprise which filled me with dread. 'What fresh caprice is this? Am I not here by your own free will and consent?' 'Oh, sir!' exclaimed I, 'this is most shameful and unworthy, to take advantage of my sleep to work my ruin; but my father shall know all!' Here my master interrupted me by bursting into loud laughter. 'Upon my word, young lady,' said he, 'you are very amusing. So you are going to say that I availed myself of your being asleep to effect your undoing. But who do you suppose will credit such a falsehood? It is now four in the morning, and since ten o'clock last night I have been here. You must have slept long and soundly not to have discovered my presence sooner. Come, come, no more attempts at shyness, but confess the truth, that I came hither with your perfect good-will and consent. You must be less capricious or we shall not keep good friends, I fear. Your father is in my power. You have no longer any cause to fly me. Be obedient to my wishes and we shall do very well together; but resist me, and the consequences shall fall heavily on you, and your family likewise.' 'I will tell my dear father of your conduct,' sobbed I; 'he will avenge me, and the laws will punish you.' M. Ferrand looked at me as though at a loss to comprehend me. 'Why, you have lost your senses,' cried he; 'what, in Heaven's name, can you tell your father? That you thought proper to invite me to your bedroom? But, invent any tale you please, you will soon find what sort of a reception it will meet with. Why, your father will not look at you, much more believe you.' 'But you know,' cried I, 'you well know, sir, I gave no permission for your being here. You are well aware you entered my chamber without my knowledge, and are now here against my will.' 'Against your will! And is it possible you have the effrontery to utter such a falsehood, to dare insinuate that I have employed force to gain my ends? Do you wish to be convinced of the folly of such an imputation? Why, by my orders, Germain, my cashier, returned here last night at ten o'clock to complete some very important papers, and until one o'clock this morning he was writing in the chamber directly under yours; would he not then have been sure to have heard the slightest sound, much less the repetition of such a struggle as we had together a little while ago, my saucy little beauty, when you were not quite in as complying a humour as I found you in last evening? Germain must have heard you during the stillness of the night had you but called for assistance. Ask him, when you see him, whether any such sound occurred; he will tell you no, and that he worked on uninterruptedly during the very hours you are accusing me of forcibly entering your bedchamber.'"

"Ah!" cried Rodolph, "the villain had evidently taken every precaution to prevent detection."

"He had, indeed. As for me, sir," continued Louise, "I was so thunderstruck with horror at these assertions of M. Ferrand, that I knew not what to reply. Ignorant of my having taken anything to induce sleep, I felt wholly unable to account for my having slept so unusually heavy and long. Appearances were strongly against me; what would it avail for me to publish the dreadful story? No one would believe me innocent. How, indeed, could I hope or expect they should, when even to myself the events of that fatal night continued an impenetrable mystery?"

Even Rodolph remained speechless with horror at this fearful revelation of the diabolical hypocrisy of M. Ferrand.

"Then," said he, after a pause of some minutes, "you never ventured to inform your father of the infamous treatment you had received?"

"No," answered she, "for I dreaded lest he might suppose I had willingly listened to the persuasions of my master; and I also feared that, in the first burst of his indignation, my poor father would forget that not only his own freedom, but the very existence of his family, depended upon the pleasure of M. Ferrand."

"And probably," continued Rodolph, desirous if possible to save Louise the painful confession, "probably, yielding to constraint, and the dread of endangering the safety of your father and family by a refusal, you continued to be the victim of this monster's brutality?"

Louise spoke not, but her cast-down eyes, and the deep blushes which dyed her pale cheek, answered most painfully in the affirmative.

"And was his conduct afterwards less barbarous and unfeeling than before?"

"Not in the least. And when, by chance, my master had the curé and vicaire of Bonne Nouvelle to dine with him, the better to avert all suspicion from himself, he would scold me severely in their presence, and even beg M. le Curé to admonish me, assuring him that some day or other I should fall into ruin; that I was a girl of free and bold manners, and that he could not make me keep my distance with the young men in his office; that I was an idle, unworthy person, whom he only kept out of charity and pity for my father, who was an honest man with a large family, whom he had greatly served and obliged. With the exception of that part of the statement which referred to my father, the rest was utterly false. I never, by any chance, saw the clerks belonging to his office, as it was situated in a building entirely detached from the house."

"And, when alone with M. Ferrand, how did he account for his treatment of you before the curé?"

"He assured me he was only jesting. However, the curé believed him, and reprehended me very severely, saying that a person must be vicious indeed to go astray in so godly a household, where I had none but the most holy and religious examples before my eyes. I knew not what answer to make to this address; I felt my cheeks burn and my eyes involuntarily cast down. All these indications of shame and confusion were construed to my disadvantage, until, at length, sick at heart, and weary, and disgusted, my very life seemed a burden to me, and many times I felt tempted to destroy myself; but the thoughts of my parents, my poor brothers and sisters, that my small earnings helped to maintain, deterred me from ending my sorrows by death. I therefore resigned myself to my wretched fate, finding one consolation, amidst the degradation of my lot, in the thought that, at least, I had preserved my father from the horrors of a prison. But a fresh misfortune overwhelmed me; I became enceinte. I now felt myself lost indeed. A secret presentiment assured me that, when M. Ferrand became aware of a circumstance which ought, at least, to have rendered him less harsh and cruel, he would treat me even more unkindly than before. I was still, however, far from expecting what afterwards occurred."

At this moment, Morel, recovering from his temporary abstraction, gazed around him, as though trying to collect his ideas, then, pressing his hand upon his forehead, looked at his daughter with an inquiring glance, and said:

"I fancy I have been ill, or something is wrong with my head—grief—fatigue—tell me, my child—what were you saying just now? I seem almost unable to recollect."

"When," continued Louise, unheeding her father's look, "when M. Ferrand discovered that I was likely to become a mother—"

Here the lapidary waved his hand in despairing agony, but Rodolph calmed him by an imploring look.

"Yes, yes," said Morel, "let me hear all; 'tis fit and right the tale should be told. Go on, go on, my girl, and I will listen from beginning to end."

Louise went on. "I besought M. Ferrand to tell me by what means I should conceal my shame, and the consequence of a crime of which he was the author. Alas, dear father, I can scarcely hope or believe you will credit what I am about to tell you."

"What did he say? Speak."

"Interrupting me with much indignation and well-feigned surprise, he affected not to understand my meaning, and even inquired whether I had not lost my senses. Terrified, I exclaimed, 'Oh, sir, what is to become of me? Alas, if you have no pity on me, pity at least the poor infant that must soon see the light!'

"'What a lost, depraved character!' cried M. Ferrand, raising his clasped hands towards heaven. 'Horrible, indeed! Why, you poor, wretched girl, is it possible that you have the audacity to accuse me of disgracing myself by any illicit acquaintance with a person of your infamous description? Can it be that you have the hardihood to lay the fruits of your immoral conduct and gross irregularity at my door,—I, who have repeated a hundred times, in the presence of respectable witnesses, that you would come to ruin some day, vile profligate that you are? Quit my house this instant, or I will drive you out!'"

Rodolph and Morel were struck with horror; a system of wickedness like this seemed to freeze their blood.

"By Heaven!" said Rodolph, "this surpasses any horrors that imagination could have conceived."

Morel did not speak, but his eyes expanded fearfully, whilst a convulsive spasm contracted his features. He quitted the stool on which he was sitting, opened a drawer suddenly, and, taking out a long and very sharp file, fixed in a wooden handle, he rushed towards the door. Rodolph, guessing his thoughts, seized his arm, and stopped his progress.

"Morel, where are you going? You will do a mischief, unhappy man!"

"Take care," exclaimed the infuriated artisan, struggling, "or I shall commit two crimes instead of one!" and the madman threatened Rodolph.

"Father, it is our benefactor!" exclaimed Louise.

"He is jesting at us; he wants to save the notary," replied Morel, quite crazed, and struggling with Rodolph. At the end of a second, the latter disarmed him, carefully opened the door, and threw the file out on the staircase. Louise ran to the lapidary, embraced him, and said:

"Father, it is our benefactor! You have raised your hand against him,—recover yourself."

These words recalled Morel to himself, and hiding his face in his hands, he fell mutely on his knees before Rodolph.

"Rise, rise, unhappy father," said Rodolph, in accents of great kindness; "be patient, be patient, I understand your wrath and share your hatred; but, in the name of your vengeance, do not compromise your daughter!"

"Louise!—my daughter!" cried the lapidary, rising, "but what can justice—the law—do against that? We are but poor wretches, and were we to accuse this rich, powerful, and respected man, we should be laughed to scorn. Ha! ha! ha!" and he laughed convulsively, "and they would be right. Where would be our proofs?—yes, our proofs? No one would believe us. So, I tell you—I tell you," he added, with increased fury, "I tell you that I have no confidence but in the impartiality of my knife."

"Silence, Morel! your grief distracts you," said Rodolph to him sorrowfully; "let your daughter speak; the moments are precious; the magistrate waits; I must know all,—all, I tell you; go on, my child."

Morel fell back on the stool, overwhelmed with his anguish.

"It is useless, sir," continued Louise, "to tell you of my tears, my prayers. I was thunderstruck. This took place at ten o'clock in the morning in M. Ferrand's private room. The curate was coming to breakfast with him, and entered at the moment when my master was assailing me with reproach and accusations. He appeared much put out at the sight of the priest."

"What occurred then?"

"Oh, he soon recovered himself, and exclaimed, call him by name, 'Well, Monsieur l'Abbé, I said so, I said this unhappy girl would be undone. She is ruined, ruined for ever; she has just confessed to me her fault and her shame, and entreated me to save her. Only think that, from commiseration, I have received such a wanton into my house!' 'How,' said the abbé to me with indignation, 'in spite of the excellent counsels which your master has given you a hundred times in my presence, have you really sunk so low? Oh, it is unpardonable! My friend, my friend, after the kindness you have evinced towards this wretched girl and her family, any pity would be weakness. Be inexorable,' said the abbé, the dupe, like the rest of the world, of M. Ferrand's hypocrisy."

"And you did not unmask the scoundrel on the spot?" asked Rodolph.

"Ah, no! monsieur, I was terrified, my head was in a whirl, I did not dare, I could not pronounce a word,—yet I was anxious to speak and defend myself. 'But sir—' I cried. 'Not one word more, unworthy creature,' said M. Ferrand, interrupting me. 'You heard M. l'Abbé. Pity would be weakness. In an hour you leave my house!' Then, without allowing me time to reply, he led the abbé into another room. After the departure of M. Ferrand," resumed Louise, "I was almost bereft of my senses for a moment. I was driven from his house, and unable to find any home elsewhere, in consequence of my condition, and the bad character which my master would give with me. I felt sure, too, that in his rage he would send my father to prison; and I did not know what to do. I went to my room, and there I wept bitterly. At the end of two hours M. Ferrand appeared. 'Is your bundle made up?' said he. 'Pardon,' I exclaimed, falling at his feet, 'do not turn me from your house in my present condition. What will become of me? I have no place to turn to.' 'So much the better; this is the way that God punishes loose behaviour and falsehood.' 'Dare you say that I tell falsehood?' I asked, indignantly, 'dare you say that it is not you who have caused my ruin?' 'Leave my house this moment, you wretch, since you persist in your calumnies!' he replied in a terrible voice; 'and to punish you I will to-morrow send your father to the gaol.' 'Well, no, no!' said I, terrified; 'I will not again accuse you, sir; that I promise you; but do not drive me away from the house. Have pity on my father. The little I earn here helps to support my family. Keep me here; I will say nothing. I will endeavour to hide every thing; and when I can no longer do so, oh, then, but not till then, send me away!' After fresh entreaties on my part, M. Ferrand consented to keep me with him; and I considered that a great favour in my wretched condition. During the time that followed this cruel scene, I was most wretched, and miserably treated; only sometimes M. Germain, whom I seldom saw, kindly asked me what made me unhappy; but shame prevented me from confessing anything to him."

"Was not that about the time when he came to reside here?"

"Yes, sir, he was looking out for an apartment near the Rue du Temple or de l'Arsenal. There was one to let here, and I told him of that one which you now occupy, sir, and it suited him exactly. When he quitted it, about two months ago, he begged me not to mention his new address here, but that they knew it at M. Ferrand's."

The necessity under which Germain was to conceal himself from those who were trying to find him explained all these precautions to Rodolph.

"And it never occurred to you to make a confidant of Germain?" he said to Louise.

"No, sir, he was also a dupe to the hypocrisy of M. Ferrand; he called him harsh and exacting; but he thought him the honestest man on the face of the earth."

"When Germain was lodging here, did he never hear your father at times accuse the notary of desiring to seduce you?"

"My father never expressed his fears before strangers; and besides, at this period, I deceived his uneasiness, and comforted him by the assurances that M. Ferrand no longer thought of me. Alas! my poor father will now forgive me those falsehoods? I only employed them to tranquillise your mind, father dear, that was all."

Morel made no reply; he only leaned his forehead on his two arms, crossed on his working-board, and sobbed bitterly.

Rodolph made a sign to Louise not to address herself to her father, and she continued thus:

"I led from this time a life of tears and perpetual anguish. By using every precaution, I had contrived to conceal my condition from all eyes; but I could not hope thus to hide it during the last two months. The future became more and more alarming to me, as M. Ferrand had declared that he would not keep me any longer in the house; and therefore I should be deprived of the small resources which assisted our family to live. Cursed and driven from my home by my father, for, after the falsehoods I had told him to set his mind at ease, he would believe me the accomplice, and not the victim of M. Ferrand, what was to become of me? where could I find refuge or place myself in my condition? I then had a criminal idea; but, fortunately, I recoiled from putting it into execution. I confess this to you, sir, because I will not keep any thing concealed, not even that which may tell against myself; and thus I may show you the extremities to which I was reduced by the cruelty of M. Ferrand. If I had given way to such a thought, would he not have been the accomplice of my crime?"

After a moment's silence, Louise resumed with great effort, and in a trembling voice:

"I had heard say by the porteress that a quack doctor lived in the house,—and,—"

She could not finish.

Rodolph recollected that, at his first interview with Madame Pipelet, he had received from the postman, in her absence, a letter written on coarse paper, in a feigned hand, and on which he had remarked the traces of tears.

"And you wrote to him, unhappy girl, three days since? You wept over your letter; and the handwriting was disguised."

Louise looked at Rodolph in great consternation.

"How did you know that, sir?"

"Do not alarm yourself; I was alone in Madame Pipelet's lodge when they brought in the letter; and I remarked it quite accidentally."

"Yes, sir, it was mine. In this letter, which bore no signature, I wrote to M. Bradamanti, saying that, as I did not dare to go to him, I would beg him to be in the evening near the Château d'Eau. I had lost my senses. I sought fearful advice from him; and I left my master's house with the intention of following them; but, at the end of a minute, my reason returned to me, and I saw what a crime I was about to commit. I returned to the house, and did not attend the appointment I had written for. That evening an event occurred, the consequences of which caused the misfortune which has overwhelmed me. M. Ferrand thought I had gone out for a couple of hours, whilst, in reality, I had been gone but a very short time. As I passed before the small garden gate, to my great surprise I saw it half open. I entered by it, and took the key into M. Ferrand's private room, where it was usually kept. This apartment was next to his bedroom, the most retired place in the house; and it was there he had his private meetings with clients and others, transacting his every-day business in the office. You will see, sir, why I give you these particulars. As I very well knew the ways of the apartments, after having crossed the dining-room, which was lighted up, I entered into the salon without any candle, and then into the little closet, which was on this side of his sleeping-room. The door of this latter opened at the moment when I was putting the key on a table; and the moment my master saw me by the light of the lamp, which was burning in his chamber, then he suddenly shut the door on some person whom I could not see, and then, in spite of the darkness, rushed towards me and, seizing me by the throat as if he would strangle me, said, in a low voice, and in a tone at once savage and alarmed, 'What! listening!—spying at the door! What did you hear? Answer me,—answer directly, or I'll strangle you.' But, suddenly changing his idea, and not giving me time to say a word, he drove me back into the dining-room; the office door was open, and he brutally thrust me in and shut the door."

"And you did not hear the conversation?"

"Not a word, sir; if I had known that there was any one in his room with him, I should have been careful not to have gone there. He even forbade Madame Séraphin from doing so."

"And, when you left the office, what did he say to you?"

"It was the housekeeper who let me out, and I did not see M. Ferrand again that night. His violence to me, and the fright I had undergone, made me very ill indeed. The next day, at the moment when I went down-stairs, I met M. Ferrand, and I shuddered when I remembered his threats of the night before; what then was my surprise when he said to me calmly, 'You knew that I forbid any one to enter my private room when I have any person there; but, for the short time longer you will stay here, it is useless to scold you any more.' And then he went into his study. This mildness astonished me after his violence of the previous evening. I went on with my work as usual, and was going to put his bedchamber to rights. I had suffered a great deal all night, and was weak and exhausted. Whilst I was hanging up some clothes in a dark closet at the end of the room near the bed, I was suddenly seized with a painful giddiness, and felt as if I should lose my senses; as I fell, I tried to support myself by grasping at a large cloak which hung against the wainscot; but in my fall I drew this cloak down on me, and was almost entirely covered by it. When I came to myself, the glass door of the above closet was shut. I heard M. Ferrand's voice,—he was speaking aloud. Remembering the scene of the previous evening, I thought I should be killed if I stirred. I suppose that, hidden by the cloak which had fallen on me, my master did not perceive me when he shut the door of this dark wardrobe. If he found me, how could I account for, and make him believe, this singular accident? I, therefore, held my breath, and in spite of myself, overheard the conclusion of this conversation which, no doubt had begun some time."

"And who was the person who was talking with the notary and shut up in this room with him?" inquired Rodolph of Louise.

"I do not know, sir; I did not recognise the voice."

"And what were they saying?"

"No doubt they had been conversing some time; but all I heard was this: 'Nothing more easy,' said the unknown voice; 'a fellow named Bras Rouge has put me, for the affair I mentioned to you just now, in connection with a family of "fresh-water pirates,"[1] established on the point of a small islet near Asnières. They are the greatest scoundrels on earth; the father and grandfather were guillotined; two of the sons were condemned to the galleys for life; but there are still left a mother, three sons, and two daughters, all as infamous as they can possibly be. They say that at night, in order to plunder on both sides of the Seine, they sometimes come down in their boats as low as Bercy. They are ruffians, who will kill any one for a crown-piece; but we shall not want their aid further than their hospitality for your lady from the country. The Martials—that is the name of these pirates—will pass in her eyes for an honest family of fishers. I will go, as if from you, to pay two or three visits to your young lady. I will order her a few comforting draughts; and at the end of a week or ten days, she will form an acquaintance with the burial-ground of Asnières. In villages, deaths are looked on as nothing more than a letter by the post, whilst in Paris they are a little more curious in such matters. But when do you send your young lady from the provinces to the isle of Asnières, for I must give the Martials notice of the part they have to play?' 'She will arrive here to-morrow, and next day I shall send her to them,' replied M. Ferrand; 'and I shall tell her that Doctor Vincent will pay her a visit at my request.' 'Ah, Vincent will do as well as any other name,' said the voice."

"What new mystery of crime and infamy?" said Rodolph, with increased astonishment.

"New? No, sir, you will see that it is in connection with another crime that you know of," resumed Louise, who thus continued: "I heard a movement of chairs,—the interview had ended. 'I do not ask the secret of you,' said M. Ferrand, 'you behave to me as I behave to you.' 'Thus we may mutually serve without any power mutually to injure each other,' answered the voice. 'Observe my zeal! I received your letter at ten o'clock last night, and here I am this morning. Good-by, accomplice; do not forget the isle of Asnières, the fisher Martial, and Doctor Vincent. Thanks to these three magic words, your country damsel has only eight days to look forward to.' 'Wait,' said M. Ferrand, 'whilst I go and undo the safety-bolt, which I have drawn to in my closet, and let me look out and see that there is no one in the antechamber, in order that you may go out by the side path in the garden by which you entered.' M. Ferrand went out for a moment, and then returned; and I heard him go away with the person whose voice I did not know. You may imagine my fright, sir, during this conversation, and my despair at having unintentionally discovered such a secret. Two hours after this conversation, Madame Séraphin came to me in my room, whither I had gone, trembling all over, and worse than I had been yet. 'My master is inquiring for you,' said she to me; 'you are better off than you deserve to be. Come, go down-stairs. You are very pale; but what you are going to hear will give you a colour.' I followed Madame Séraphin, and found M. Ferrand in his private study. When I saw him, I shuddered in spite of myself, and yet he did not look so disagreeable as usual. He looked at me steadfastly for some time, as if he would read the bottom of my thoughts. I lowered my eyes. 'You seem very ill?' he said. 'Yes, sir,' I replied, much surprised at being thus addressed. 'It is easily accounted for,' added he; 'it is the result of your condition and the efforts you make to conceal it; but, in spite of your falsehoods, your bad conduct, and your indiscretion yesterday,' he added, in a milder tone, 'I feel pity for you. A few days more, and it will be impossible to conceal your situation. Although I have treated you as you deserve before the curate of the parish, such an event in the eyes of the world will be the disgrace of a house like mine; and, moreover, your family will be deeply distressed. Under these circumstances I will come to your aid.' 'Ah! sir,' I cried, 'such kind words from you make me forget everything.' 'Forget what?' asked he, hastily. 'Nothing,—nothing,—forgive me, sir!' I replied, fearful of irritating him, and believing him kindly disposed towards me. 'Then attend to me,' said he; 'you will go to see your father to-day, and tell him that I am going to send you into the country for two or three months, to take care of a house which I have just bought. During your absence I will send your wages to him. To-morrow you will leave Paris. I will give you a letter of introduction to Madame Martial, the mother of an honest family of fishers, who live near Asnières. You will say you came from the country and nothing more. You will learn hereafter my motive for this introduction, which is for your good. Madame Martial will treat you as one of the family, and a medical man of my acquaintance, Dr. Vincent, will give you all you require in your situation. You see how kind I am to you!'"

"What a horrible snare!" exclaimed Rodolph; "I see it all now. Believing that overnight you had listened to some secret, no doubt very important for him, he desired to get rid of you. He had probably an interest in deceiving his accomplice by describing you as a female from the country. What must have been your alarm at this proposal?"

"It was like a violent blow; it quite bereft me of sense. I could not reply, but looked at M. Ferrand aghast; my head began to wander. I should, perhaps, have risked my life by telling him that I had overheard his projects in the morning, when fortunately I recollected the fresh perils to which such an avowal would expose me. 'You do not understand me, then?' he said, impatiently. 'Yes, sir,—but,' I added, all trembling, 'I should prefer not going into the country.' 'Why not? You will be taken every care of where I send you.' 'No, no, I will not go; I would rather remain in Paris, and not go away from my family; I would rather confess all to them, and die with them, if it must be so.' 'You refuse me, then?' said M. Ferrand, repressing his rage, and looking fixedly at me. 'Why have you so suddenly changed your mind? Not a minute ago you accepted my offer.' I saw that if he guessed my motive I was lost, so I replied that I did not then think that he desired me to leave Paris and my family. 'But you dishonour your family, you wretched girl!' he exclaimed, and unable any longer to restrain himself, he seized me by the arms, and shook me so violently that I fell. 'I will give you until the day after to-morrow,' he cried, 'and then you shall go from here to the Martials, or go and inform your father that I have turned you out of my house, and will send him to gaol to-morrow.' He then left me, stretched on the floor, whence I had not the power to rise. Madame Séraphin had run in when she heard her master raise his voice so loud, and with her assistance, and staggering at every step, I regained my chamber, where I threw myself on my bed, and remained until night, so entirely was I prostrated by all that had happened. By the pains that came on about one o'clock in the morning, I felt assured that I should be prematurely a mother."

"Why did you not summon assistance?"

"Oh, I did not dare. M. Ferrand was anxious to get rid of me, and he would certainly have sent for Dr. Vincent, who would have killed me at my master's instead of killing me at the Martials, or else M. Ferrand would have stifled me, and said that I had died in my confinement. Alas, sir, perhaps these were vain terrors, but they came over me at this moment and caused my suffering; otherwise I would have endured the shame, and should never have been accused of killing my child. Instead of calling for help, and for fear my cries should be heard, I stuffed my mouth full with the bedclothes. At length, after dreadful anguish, alone, in the midst of darkness, the child was born, and,—dead,—I did not kill it!—indeed, I did not kill it,—ah, no! In the midst of this fearful night I had one moment of bitter joy, and that was when I pressed my child in my arms."

And the voice of Louise was stifled with sobs.

Morel had listened to his daughter's recital with a mournful apathy and indifference which alarmed Rodolph. However, seeing her burst into tears, the lapidary, who was still leaning on his work-board with his two hands pressed against his temples, looked at Louise steadfastly, and said:

"She weeps,—she weeps,—why is she weeping?" Then, after a moment's hesitation, "Ah, yes,—I know, I know,—the notary,—isn't it? Go on my poor Louise,—you are my daughter,—I love you still,—just now I did not recognise you,—my eyes were darkened with my tears,—oh, my head,—how badly it aches,—my head, my head!"

"You do not believe me guilty, do you, father, do you?"

"Oh, no, no!"

"It is a terrible misfortune; but I was so fearful of the notary."

"The notary? Ah, yes, and well you might be; he is so wicked, so very wicked!"

"But you will forgive me now?"

"Yes, yes."

"Really and truly?"

"Yes—ah, yes! Ah! I love you the same as ever,—although I cannot—not say—you see—because—oh, my head, my head!"

Louise looked at Rodolph in extreme alarm.

"He is suffering deeply; but let him calm himself. Go on."

Louise, after looking twice or thrice at Morel with great disquietude, thus resumed:

"I clasped my infant to my breast, and was astonished at not hearing it breathe. I said to myself, 'The breathing of a baby is so faint that it is difficult to hear it.' But then it was so cold. I had no light, for they never would leave one with me. I waited until the dawn came, trying to keep it warm as well as I could; but it seemed to me colder and colder. I said to myself then; 'It freezes so hard that it must be the cold that chills it so.' At daybreak I carried my child to the window and looked at it; it was stiff and cold. I placed my mouth to its mouth, to try and feel its breath. I put my hand on its heart; but it did not beat; it was dead."

And Louise burst into tears.

"Oh! at this moment," she continued, "something passed within me which it is impossible to describe. I only remember confusedly what followed,—it was like a dream,—it was at once despair, terror, rage, and above all, I was seized with another fear; I no longer feared M. Ferrand would strangle me, but I feared that, if they found my child dead by my side, I should be accused of having killed it. Then I had but one thought, and that was to conceal the corpse from everybody's sight; and then my dishonour would not be known, and I should no longer have to dread my father's anger. I should escape from M. Ferrand's vengeance, because I could now leave his house, obtain another situation, and gain something to help and support my family. Alas! sir, such were the reasons which induced me not to say any thing, but try and hide my child's remains from all eyes. I was wrong, I know; but, in the situation in which I was, oppressed on all sides, worn out by suffering, and almost mad, I did not consider to what I exposed myself if I should be discovered."

"What torture! what torture!" said Rodolph with deep sympathy.

"The day was advancing," continued Louise, "and I had but a few moments before me until the household would be stirring. I hesitated no longer, but, wrapping up the unhappy babe as well as I could, I descended the staircase silently, and went to the bottom of the garden to try and make a hole in the ground to bury it; but it had frozen so hard in the night that I could not dig up the earth. So I concealed the body in the bottom of a sort of cellar, into which no one entered during the winter, and then I covered it up with an empty box which had held flowers, and returned to my apartment, without any person having seen me. Of all I tell you, sir, I have but a very confused recollection. Weak as I was, it is inexplicable to me how I had strength and courage to do all I did. At nine o'clock Madame Séraphin came to inquire why I had not risen. I told her that I was so very ill, and prayed of her to allow me to remain in bed during the day, and that on the following day I should quit the house, as M. Ferrand had dismissed me. At the end of an hour's time, he came himself. 'You are worse to-day. Ah! that is the consequence of your obstinacy,' said he; 'if you had taken advantage of my kind offer, you would to-day have been comfortably settled with some worthy people, who would have taken every care of you; but I will not be so cruel as to leave you without help in your present situation; and this evening Doctor Vincent shall come and see you.' At this threat I shuddered; but I replied to M. Ferrand that I was wrong to refuse his offers the evening before, and that I would now accept them; but that, being too ill to move then, I could not go until the day after the next to the Martials, and that it was useless to send for Doctor Vincent. I only sought to gain time, for I had made up my mind to leave the house, and go the next day to my father, whom I hoped to keep in ignorance of all. Relying on my promise, M. Ferrand was almost kind to me, and, for the first time in his life, recommended Madame Séraphin to take care of me. I passed the day in mental agony, trembling every instant lest the body of my child should be accidentally discovered. I was only anxious that the frost should break up, so that, the ground not being so hard, I might be able to dig it up. The snow began to fall, and that gave me some hopes. I remained all day in bed, and when the night came, I waited until every one should be asleep, and then I summoned strength enough to rise and go to the wood-closet, where I found a chopper, with which I hoped to dig a hole in the ground which was covered with snow. After immense trouble I succeeded, and then, taking the body, I wept bitterly over it, and buried it as well as I could in the little box that had held flowers. I did not know the prayer for the dead; but I said a Pater and an Ave, and prayed to the good God to receive it into Paradise. I thought my courage would fail me when I was covering the mould over the sort of bier I had made. A mother burying her own child! At length I completed my task, and ah, what it cost me! I covered the place all over with snow, that it might conceal every trace of what I had done. The moon had lighted me; yet, when all was done, I could hardly resolve to go away. Poor little innocent!—in the icy ground,—beneath the snow! Although it was dead, yet I still seemed to fear that it must feel the cold. At length I returned to my chamber; and when I got into bed I was in a violent fever. In the morning M. Ferrand sent to know how I found myself. I replied that I was a little better, and that I felt sure I should be strong enough to go next day into the country. I remained the whole of the day in bed, hoping to acquire a little strength, and in the evening I arose and went down into the kitchen to warm myself. I was then quite alone, and then went out into the garden to to say a last prayer. As I went up to my room I met M. Germain on the landing-place of the study in which he wrote sometimes, looking very pale. He said to me hastily, placing a rouleau of money in my hand, 'They are going to arrest your father to-morrow morning for an over-due bill of thirteen hundred francs; he is unable to pay it; but here is the money. As soon as it is light, run to him. It was only to-day that I found out what sort of a man M. Ferrand is; and he is a villain. I will unmask him. Above all, do not say that you have the money from me.'

"M. Germain did not even give me time to thank him, but ran quickly down-stairs. This morning," continued Louise, "before any one had risen at M. Ferrand's, I came here with the money which M. Germain had given me to save my father; but it was not enough, and but for your generosity, I could not have rescued him from the bailiff's hands. Probably, after I had left, they went into my room and, having suspicions, have now sent to arrest me. One last service, sir," said Louise, taking the rouleau of gold from her pocket, "will you give back this money to M. Germain; I had promised him not to say to any one that he was employed at M. Ferrand's; but, since you know it, I have not broken my confidence. Now, sir, I repeat to you before God, who hears me, that I have not said a word that is not quite true; I have not tried to hide my faults, and—"

But, suddenly interrupting herself, Louise exclaimed with alarm:

"Sir, sir, look at my father! what can be the matter with him?"

Morel had heard the latter part of this narration with a dull indifference, which Rodolph had accounted for by attributing it to the heavy additional misfortune which had occurred to him. After such violent and repeated shocks, his tears must have dried up, his sensibility have become lost; he had not even the strength left to feel anger, as Rodolph thought; but Rodolph was mistaken. As the flame of a candle which is nearly extinguished dies away and recovers, so Morel's reason, already much shaken, wavered for some time, throwing out now and then some small rays of intelligence, and then suddenly all was darkness.

Absolutely unconscious of what was said or passing around him, for some time the lapidary had become quite insane. Although his hand-wheel was placed on the other side of his working-table, and he had not in his hands either stones or tools, yet the occupied artisan was feigning the operations of his daily labour, and affecting to use his implements. He accompanied this pantomime with a sort of noise with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, in imitation of the noise of his lathe in its rotatory motions.

"But, sir," said Louise again, with increasing fright, "look, pray look at my father!"

Then, approaching the artisan, she said to him:

"Father! father!"

Morel gazed on his daughter with that troubled, vague, distracted, wandering look which characterises the insane, and without discontinuing his assumed labour, he replied, in a low and melancholy tone:

"I owe the notary thirteen hundred francs; it is the price of Louise's blood,—so I must work, work, work!—oh, I'll pay, I'll pay, I'll pay!"

"Can it be possible? This cannot be,—he is not mad,—no, no!" exclaimed Louise, in a heart-rending voice. "He will recover,—it is but a momentary fit of absence!"

"Morel, my good fellow," said Rodolph to him, "we are here. Your daughter is near you,—she is innocent."

"Thirteen hundred francs!" said the lapidary, not attending to Rodolph, but going on with his sham employment.

"My father!" exclaimed Louise, throwing herself at his feet, and clasping his hands in her own, in spite of his resistance, "it is I—it is your Louise!"

"Thirteen hundred francs," he repeated, wresting his hands from the grasp of his daughter. "Thirteen hundred francs,—and if not," he added, in a low and as it were, confidential tone, "and if not, Louise is to be guillotined."

And again he imitated the turning of his lathe.

Louise gave a piercing shriek.

"He is mad!" she exclaimed, "he is mad! and it is I—it is I who am the cause! Oh! Yet it is not my fault,—I did not desire to do ill,—it was that monster."

"Courage, courage, my poor girl," said Rodolph, "let us hope that this attack is but momentary. Your father has suffered so much; so many troubles, all at once, were more than he could bear. His reason wanders for a moment; it will soon be restored."

"But my mother, my grandmother, my sisters, my brothers, what will become of them all?" exclaimed Louise, "Now they are deprived of my father and myself, they must die of hunger, misery and despair!"

"Am I not here?—make your mind, easy; they shall want for nothing. Courage, I say to you. Your disclosure will bring about the punishment of a great criminal. You have convinced me of your innocence, and I have no doubt but that it will be discovered and proclaimed."

"Ah, sir, you see,—dishonour, madness, death,—see the miseries which that man causes, and yet no one can do any thing against him! Nothing! The very thought completes all my wretchedness."

"So far from that, let the contrary thought help to support you."

"What mean you, sir?"

"Take with you the assurance that your father, yourself, and your family shall be avenged."

"Avenged!"

"Yes, that I swear to you," replied Rodolph, solemnly; "I swear to you that his crimes shall be exposed, and this man shall bitterly expiate the dishonour, madness, and death which he has caused. If the laws are powerless to reach him, if his cunning and skill equal his misdeeds, then his cunning must be met by cunning, his skill must be counteracted by skill, his misdeeds faced by other misdeeds, but which shall be to his but a just and avenging retribution, inflicted on a guilty wretch by an inexorable hand, when compared to a cowardly and base murder."

"Ah, sir, may Heaven hear you! It is no longer myself whom I seek to avenge, but a poor, distracted father,—my child killed in its birth—"

Then, trying another effort to turn Morel from his insanity, Louise again exclaimed:

"Adieu, father! They are going to lead me to prison, and I shall never see you again. It is your poor Louise who bids you adieu. My father! my father! my father!"

To this distressing appeal there was no response. In that poor, destroyed mind there was no echo,—none. The paternal cords, always the last broken, no longer vibrated.

The door of the garret opened; the commissary entered.

"My moments are numbered, sir," said he to Rodolph. "I declare to you with much regret that I cannot allow this conversation to be protracted any longer."

"This conversation is ended, sir," replied Rodolph, bitterly, and pointing to the lapidary. "Louise has nothing more to say to her father,—he has nothing more to hear from his daughter,—he is a lunatic."

"I feared as much. It is really frightful!" exclaimed the magistrate.

And approaching the workman hastily, after a minute's scrutiny, he was convinced of the sad reality.

"Ah, sir," said he sorrowfully to Rodolph, "I had already expressed my sincerest wishes that the innocence of this young girl might be discovered; but after such a misfortune I will not confine myself to good wishes,—no,—no! I will speak of this honest and distressed family; I will speak of this fearful and last blow which has overwhelmed it; and do not doubt but that the judges will have an additional motive to find the accused innocent."

"Thanks, thanks, sir!" said Rodolph; "by acting thus it will not be a mere duty that you fulfil, but a holy office which you undertake."

"Believe me, sir, our duty is always such a painful one that it is most grateful to us to be interested in any thing which is worthy and good."

"One word more, sir. The disclosures of Louise Morel have fully convinced me of her innocence. Will you be so kind as inform me how her pretended crime was discovered, or rather denounced?"

"This morning," said the magistrate, "a housekeeper in the service of M. Ferrand, the notary, came and deposed before me that, after the hasty departure of Louise Morel, whom she knew to be seven months advanced in the family way, she went into the young girl's apartment, and was convinced that she had been prematurely confined; footsteps had been traced in the snow, which had led to the detection of the body of a new-born child buried in the garden. After this declaration I went myself to the Rue du Sentier, and found M. Jacques Ferrand most indignant that such a scandalous affair should have happened in his house. The curé of the church Bonne Nouvelle, whom he had sent for, also declared to me that Louise Morel had owned her fault in his presence one day, when, on this account, she was imploring the indulgence and pity of her master; that, besides, he had often heard M. Ferrand give Louise Morel the most serious warnings, telling her that, sooner or later, she would be lost,—'a prediction,' added the abbé, 'which has been unfortunately fulfilled.' The indignation of M. Ferrand," continued the magistrate, "seemed to me so just and natural, that I shared in it. He told me that, no doubt, Louise Morel had taken refuge with her father. I came hither instantly, for the crime being flagrant, I was empowered to proceed by immediate apprehension."

Rodolph with difficulty restrained himself when he heard of the indignation of M. Ferrand, and said to the magistrate:

"I thank you a thousand times, sir, for your kindness, and the support you promise Louise. I will take care that this poor man, as well as his wife's mother, are sent to a lunatic asylum."

Then, addressing Louise, who was still kneeling close to her father, endeavouring, but vainly, to recall him to his senses:

"Make up your mind, my poor girl, to go without taking leave of your mother,—spare her the pain of such a parting. Be assured that she shall be taken care of, and nothing shall in future be wanting to your family, for a woman shall be found who will take care of your mother and occupy herself with your brothers, and sisters, under the superintendence of your kind neighbour, Mlle. Rigolette. As for your father, nothing shall be spared to make his return to reason as rapid as it is complete. Courage! Believe me, honest people are often severely tried by misfortune, but they always come out of these struggles more pure, more strong, and more respected."

Two hours after the apprehension of Louise, the lapidary and the old idiot mother were, by Rodolph's orders, taken to the Bicêtre by David, where they were to be kept in private rooms and to receive particular care. Morel left the house in the Rue du Temple without resistance; indifferent as he was, he went wherever they led him,—his lunacy was gentle, inoffensive, and melancholy. The grandmother was hungry, and when they showed her bread and meat she followed the bread and meat. The jewels of the lapidary, entrusted to his wife, were the same day given to Madame Mathieu (the jewel-matcher), who fetched them. Unfortunately she was watched and followed by Tortillard, who knew the value of the pretended false stones in consequence of the conversation he had overheard during the time Morel was arrested by the bailiffs. The son of Bras Rouge discovered that she lived, Boulevard Saint-Denis, No. 11.

Rigolette apprised Madeleine Morel, with considerable delicacy, of the fit of lunacy which had attacked the lapidary, and of Louise's imprisonment. At first, Madeleine wept bitterly, and uttered terrible shrieks; then, the first burst of her grief over, the poor creature, weak and overcome, consoled herself as well as she could by seeing that she and her children were surrounded by the many comforts which she owed to the generosity of their benefactor.

As to Rodolph, his thoughts were very poignant when he considered the disclosures of Louise. "Nothing is more common," he said, "than this corrupting of the female servant by the master, either by consent or against it; sometimes by terror and surprise, sometimes by the imperious nature of those relations which create servitude. This depravity, descending from the rich to the poor, despising (in its selfish desire) the sanctity of the domestic hearth,—this depravity, still most deplorable when it is voluntarily submitted to, becomes hideous, frightful, when it is satisfied with violence. It is an impure and brutal slavery, an ignoble and barbarous tyranny over a fellow-creature, who in her fright replies to the solicitations of her master by her tears, and to his declarations with a shudder of fear and disgust. And then," continued Rodolph, "what is the consequence to the female? Almost invariably there follow degradation, misery, prostitution, theft, and sometimes infanticide! And yet the laws are, as yet, strangers to this crime! Every accomplice of a crime has the punishment of that crime; every receiver is considered as guilty as the thief. That is justice. But when a man wantonly seduces a young, innocent, and pure girl, renders her a mother, abandons her, leaving her but shame, disgrace, despair, and driving her, perchance, to infanticide, a crime for which she forfeits her life, is this man considered as her accomplice? Pooh! What, then, follows? Oh, 'tis nothing,—nothing but a little love-affair! the whim of the day for a pair of bright eyes. Then she is left, and he looks out for the next. Still more, it is just possible that the man may be of an original, an inquisitive turn, perhaps, at the same time, an excellent brother and son, and may go to the bar of the criminal court and see his paramour tried for her life! If by chance he should be subpœnaed as a witness, he may amuse himself by saying to the persons desirous of having the poor girl executed as soon as possible, for the greater edification of the public morals, 'I have something important to disclose to justice.' 'Speak!' 'Gentlemen of the jury,—This unhappy female was pure and virtuous, it is true. I seduced her,—that is equally true; she bore me a child,—that is also true. After that, as she has a light complexion, I completely forsook her for a pretty brunette,—that is still more true; but, in doing so, I have only followed out an imprescriptible right, a sacred right which society recognizes and accords to me.' 'The truth is, this young man is perfectly in the right,' the jury would say one to another; 'there is no law which prevents a young man from seducing a fair girl, and then forsaking her for a brunette; he is a gay young chap, and that's all.' 'Now, gentlemen of the jury, this unhappy girl is said to have killed her child,—I will say our child,—because I abandoned her; because, finding herself alone and in the deepest misery, she became frightened, and lost her senses! And wherefore? Because having, as she says, to bring up and feed her child, it was impossible that she could continue to work regularly at her occupation, and gain a livelihood for herself and this pledge of our love! But I think these reasons quite unworthy of consideration, allow me to say, gentlemen of the jury. Could she not have gone to the Lying-in Hospital, if there was room for her? Could she not, at the critical moment, have gone to the magistrate of her district and made a declaration of her shame, so that she might have had authority for placing her child in the Enfants Trouvés? In fact, could she not, whilst I was playing billiards at the coffee-house, whilst awaiting my other mistress, could she not have extricated herself from this affair by some genteeler mode than this? For, gentlemen of the jury, I will admit that I consider this way of disposing of the pledge of our loves as rather too unceremonious and rude, under the idea of thus quietly escaping all future care and trouble. What, is it enough for a young girl to lose her character, brave contempt, infamy, and have an illegitimate child? No; but she must also educate the child, take care of it, bring it up, give it a business, and make an honest man of it, if it be a boy, like its father; or an honest girl, who does not turn wanton like her mother. For, really, maternity has its sacred duties, and the wretches who trample them under foot are unnatural mothers, who deserve an exemplary and notable punishment; as a proof of which, gentlemen of the jury, I beg you will unhesitatingly hand over this miserable woman to the executioner, and you will thus do your duty like independent, firm, and enlightened citizens. Dixi!' 'This gentleman looks at the question in a very moral point of view,' will say some hatmaker or retired furrier, who is foreman of the jury; 'he has done, i'faith, what we should all have done in his place; for the girl is very pretty, though rather pallid in complexion. This gay spark, as the song says: