Mysteries of Paris Volume II Part 15

"I knew it!" he cried. "Do you see, sir--she denies it--and never in her life has she lied, I swear to you. Ask every one who knows her, and they will say the same. She lie? she is too proud for that.

Besides, the bill was paid by our benefactor. She don't want gold; she was going to return it to the person who lent it, wasn't you, Louise?"

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

"But of what is she accused, then? I, her father, swear that, whatever she is accused of, she is innocent; and all my life I have never lied."

"What good will it do to know what she is accused of?" said Rudolph to him; "her innocence shall be proven--the person who interests herself so much in you will protect your daughter. Come, come. This time, again, Providence will not fail you. Embrace your daughter--you will soon see her again."

"M. le Commissaire," cried Morel, without listening to Rudolph, "a daughter is not taken away from a father without at least telling him of what she is accused! I wish to know all! Louise, will you speak?"

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

"I--I--do not comprehend--I--you--"

"Your daughter is accused of having killed her child," said the officer, much overcome at this scene.

"But it is not yet proved that she has committed this crime."

"Oh, no, it is not so, sir, it is not so," cried Louise, with force, and raising herself up: "I swear to you it was dead. It breathed no more; it was frozen; I lost all consciousness; that is my crime. But kill my child, oh, never!"

"Your child, wretch!" cried Morel, raising his hands to Louise, as if he wished to annihilate her with this gesture and terrible imprecation.

"Pardon, father, pardon!" cried she.

After a moment of frightful silence, Morel went on with a calmness still more frightful.

"Sir, take away this creature; she is not my child."

He wished to go out; Louise threw herself at his knees, which she embraced with both arms, and, with face upward, frantic and supplicating, she cried, "Father, listen to me, only listen to me."

"Officer, take her away, I abandon her to you," said the artisan, making every effort to disengage himself from the embraces of Louise.

"Listen to her," said Rudolph, stopping him; "do not be now without pity."

"She, she!" repeated Morel, burying his face in his hands, "she dishonored! oh! infamous, infamous!"

"Is she dishonored to save you?" whispered Rudolph.

These words made a startling impression on Morel; he looked at his weeping child, still kneeling at his feet, then, interrogating her with a look impossible to describe, he cried in a hollow voice, his teeth grinding with rage, "The notary!"

An answer came to the lips of Louise. She was about to speak, but, on reflection, she stopped, bent her head, and remained silent.

"But no--he wished to imprison me this morning," continued Morel; "it is not he? oh, so much the better! so much the better. She has no excuse for her fault; I can curse her without remorse."

"No, no! do not curse me, my father; to you I will tell all; to you alone; and you will see--you will see if I do not deserve your pardon."

"Listen to her for the sake of pity," said Rudolph.

"What can she tell me? her infamy? it will soon be public; I will wait."

"Sir!" cried Louise to the magistrate, "in mercy let me say a few words to my father before leaving him, perhaps forever. And before you also, our savior, I will speak, but only before you and my father."

"I consent," said the magistrate.

"Will you, then, be insensible? will you refuse this last consolation to your child?" asked Rudolph. "If you think you owe me some return for the favors I have directed toward you, grant the prayer of your daughter."

After a moment of mournful silence, Morel answered, "Let us go."

"But where shall we go?" asked Rudolph; "your family is in the next room."

"Where shall we go?" cried the artisan, with bitter irony, "where shall we go? up there--up there, in the garret, alongside of the body of my child. The place is well chosen for this confession--is it not?

Come--we will see if Louise will dare to lie in the sight of her sister. Come!" Morel went out precipitately, with a wild stare, without looking at Louise."

"Sir," whispered the officer to Rudolph, "do not prolong this interview. You said truly, his reason will not sustain it; just now his look was that of a madman."

"Alas! sir, I fear, like you, a terrible and new misfortune: I will shorten as much as possible the touching adieus." And Rudolph rejoined the artisan and his daughter.

CHAPTER II.

CONFESSION.

Dark and gloomy spectacle.

In the garret reposed, on the couch of the idiot, the corpse of the little child. An old piece of sheet covered it. Rudolph standing with his back to the wall, was painfully affected. Morel, seated on his work-bench, his head down, hands hanging; his looks, fixed, wild, were constantly bent on the bed where reposed the remains of the little Adele.

At this sight, the anger, the indignation of the artisan became weaker, and changed into a sadness of inexpressible bitterness; his energy abandoned him--he sunk under this new blow. Louise, of a mortal paleness, felt her strength fail her. The revelation that she was about to make frightened her. Yet she took tremblingly the hand of her father--that poor, thin hand, deformed by excess of labor.

He did not withdraw it. Then his daughter, bursting into tears, covered it with kisses, and soon felt it press lightly against her lips.

The anger of Morel had ceased; his tears, for a long time retained, flowed at last. "My father, if you knew--if you knew how much I am to be pitied."

"Oh! stop; you see, this will be the grief of all my life, Louise--of all my life," answered the artisan, weeping. "You in prison--in the dock--you, so proud-when you had the right to be so. No," continued he, in a new access of desperate grief, "no, I should prefer to seeing you under the winding-sheet, alongside your poor little sister."

"And I, also, wish it were so," answered Louise.

"Hush, unfortunate child, you give me pain. I was wrong to say that; I went too far. Come, speak, but tell the truth. However frightful it may be, tell me all. If I hear it from you, it will appear less cruel to me. Speak; alas! our moments are counted; you are waited for. Oh!

the sad, sad parting."

"My father, I will tell you all," said Louise, resolutely; "but promise me, and you, our benefactor, promise also, not to repeat this to any one. If he knew that I had spoken, do you see--oh! you would be lost--lost like me; for you do not know the power and ferocity of this man."

"Of what man?"

"My master."