LITMIR.BIZ

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has been unsuccessful so far, yet one day, perhaps—"

      Madame Georges shook her head sorrowfully, and said, in bitter accents, "My poor son would be now twenty years old!"

      "Say he is that age—"

      "God hear you, and grant it, M. Rodolph."

      "He will hear, I fully believe. Yesterday I went (but in vain) to find a certain fellow called Bras Rouge who might, perhaps, have given me some information about your son. Coming away from this Bras Rouge's abode, after a struggle in which I was engaged, I met with this unfortunate girl—"

      "Alas! but your kind endeavour in my behalf has thrown in your way another unfortunate being, M. Rodolph."

      "You have no intelligence from Rochefort?"

      "None," said Madame Georges, shuddering, and in a low voice.

      "So much the better! We can no longer doubt but that the monster met his death in the attempt to escape from the—"

      Rodolph hesitated to pronounce the horrible word.

      "From the Bagne? Oh, say it!—the Bagne!" exclaimed the wretched woman with horror, and almost frantic as she spoke. "The father of my child! Ah! if the unhappy boy still lives—if, like me, he has not changed his name—oh, shame! shame! And yet it may be nothing: his father has, perhaps, carried out his horrid threat! What has he done with my boy? Why did he tear him from me?"

      "That mystery I cannot fathom," said Rodolph, with a pensive air. "What could induce the wretch to carry off your son fifteen years ago, and when he was trying to escape into a foreign land? A child of that age could only embarrass his flight."

      "Alas, M. Rodolph! when my husband" (the poor woman shuddered as she pronounced the word) "was arrested on the frontier and thrown into prison, where I was allowed to visit him, he said to me these horrible words: 'I took away the brat because you were fond of him, and it will be a means of compelling you to send me money, which may or may not be of service to him—that's my affair. Whether he lives or dies it is no matter to you; but if he lives, he will be in good hands: you shall drink as deep of the shame of the son as you have of the disgrace of the father!' Alas! a month afterwards my husband was condemned to the galleys for life; and since then all my entreaties, my prayers, and letters have been in vain. I have never been able to learn the fate of my boy. Ah, M. Rodolph! where is my child at this moment? These frightful words are always ringing in my ears: 'You shall drink as deep of the shame of the son as you have of the disgrace of the father!'"

      "This atrocity is most inexplicable; why should he demoralise the unhappy child? Why carry him off?"

      "I have told you, M. Rodolph—to compel me to send him money; although he had nearly ruined me, yet I had still some small resources, but they at length were exhausted also. In spite of his wickedness, I could not believe but that he would employ, at least, a portion of this money in the bringing-up of this unhappy child."

      "And your son had no sign, no mark, by which he could be recognised?"

      "No other than that of which I have spoken to you, M. Rodolph—a small Saint Esprit, sculptured in lapis lazuli, tied round his neck by a chain of silver: a sacred relic, blessed by the holy father."

      "Courage, courage; God is all-powerful."

      "Providence placed me in your path, M. Rodolph."

      "Too late, Madame Georges; too late. I might have saved you many years of sorrow."

      "Ah, M. Rodolph, how kind you have been to me!"

      "In what way? I bought this farm; in time of your prosperity you were not idle, and now you have become my manager here, where—thanks to your excellent superintendence, intelligence, and activity—this establishment produces me—"

      "Produces you, my lord?" said Madame Georges, interrupting Rodolph; "why, all the returns are employed, not only in ameliorating the condition of the labourers, who consider the occupation on this model farm as a great favour, but, moreover, to succour all the needy in the district; through the mediation of our good Abbé Laporte—"

      "Ah, the dear abbé!" said Rodolph, desirous of escaping the praise of Madame Georges; "have you had the kindness to inform him of my arrival? I wish to recommend my protégée to him. He has had my letter?"

      "Mr. Murphy gave it to him when he came this morning."

      "In that letter I told our good curé, in a few words, the history of this poor girl. I was not sure that I should be able to come to-day myself, and if not, then Murphy would have conducted Marie—"

      A labourer of the farm interrupted this conversation, which had been carried on in the garden.

      "Madame, M. le Curé is waiting for you."

      "Are the post-horses arrived, my lad?" inquired Rodolph.

      "Yes, M. Rodolph; and they are putting to." And the man left the garden.

      Madame Georges, the curé, and the inhabitants of the farm only knew Fleur-de-Marie's protector as M. Rodolph. Murphy's discretion was faultless; and although when in private he was very precise in "my-lording" Rodolph, yet before strangers he was very careful not to address him otherwise than as M. Rodolph.

      "I forgot to mention, my dear Madame Georges," said Rodolph, when he returned to the house, "that Marie has, I fear, very weak lungs—privations and misery have tried her health. This morning early I was struck with the pallor of her countenance, although her cheeks were of a deep rose colour; her eyes, too, seem to me to have a brilliancy which betokens a feverish system. Great care must be taken of her."

      "Rely on me, M. Rodolph; but, thank God! there is nothing serious to apprehend. At her age, in the country, with pure air, rest, and quiet, she will soon be quite restored."

      "I hope so; but I will not trust to your country doctors. I will desire Murphy to bring here my medical man—a negro—a very skilful person, who will tell you the best regimen to pursue. You must send me news of Marie very often. Some time hence, when she shall be better, and more at ease, we will talk about her future life; perhaps it would be best that she always remained with you, if you were pleased with her."

      "I should like it greatly, M. Rodolph; she would supply the place of the child I have lost, and must for ever bewail."

      "Let us still hope for you and for her."

      At the moment when Rodolph and Madame Georges approached the farm, Murphy and Marie also entered. The worthy gentleman let go the arm of Goualeuse, and said to Rodolph in a low voice, and with an air of some confusion:

      "This girl has bewitched me; I really do not know which interests me most, she or Madame Georges. I was a brute—a beast!"

      "I knew, old Murphy, that you would do justice to my protégée," said Rodolph, smiling, and shaking hands with the squire.

      Madame Georges, leaning on Marie's arm, entered with her into a small room on the ground floor, where the Abbé Laporte was waiting. Murphy went away, to see all ready for their departure. Madame Georges, Marie, Rodolph, and the curé remained together.

      Plain, but very comfortable, this small apartment was fitted up with green hangings, like the rest of the house, as had been exactly described to Goualeuse by Rodolph. A thick carpet covered the floor, a good fire burnt in the grate, and two large nosegays of daisies of all colours, placed in two crystal vases, shed their agreeable odour throughout the room. Through the windows, with their green blinds, which were half opened, was to be seen the meadow, the little stream, and, beyond it, the bank planted with chestnut-trees.

      The Abbé Laporte, who was seated near the fireplace, was upwards of eighty years of age, and had, ever since the last days of the Revolution, done duty in this small parish. Nothing can be imagined more venerable than his aged, withered, and somewhat melancholy countenance, shaded by long white locks, which fell on the collar of his black cassock, which was pieced in more places than one; the abbé liked better, as they said, to clothe one or two poor children in good warm broadcloth, than faire le muguet; that is, to wear his cassocks less

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