compassion quite maternal, so much gentleness and sweetness did this poor girl evince.
"Here is my child, who has come to thank you for your goodness, M. Rodolph," said Madame Georges, presenting Goualeuse to Rodolph.
At the words, "my child," Goualeuse turned her large eyes slowly towards her protectress, and contemplated her for some moments with a look of unutterable gratitude.
"Thanks for Marie, my dear Madame Georges; she deserves this kind interest, and always will deserve it."
"M. Rodolph," said Goualeuse, with a trembling voice, "you understand, I know, I feel that you do, that I cannot find anything to say to you."
"Your emotion tells me all, my child."
"Oh, she feels deeply the good fortune that has come to her so providentially," said Madame Georges, deeply affected; "her first impulse on entering my room was to prostrate herself before my crucifix."
"Because now, thanks to you, M. Rodolph, I dare to pray," said Goualeuse.
Murphy turned away hastily; his pretensions to firmness would not allow of any one seeing to what extent the simple words of Goualeuse had touched him.
Rodolph said to her, "My child, I wish to have some conversation with Madame Georges. My friend Murphy will lead you over the farm, and introduce you to your future protégés. We will join you presently. Well, Murphy, Murphy, don't you hear me?"
The worthy gentleman turned his back, and pretended to blow his nose with a very loud noise, then put his handkerchief in his pocket, pulled his hat over his eyes, and, turning half around, offered his arm to Marie, managing so skilfully that neither Rodolph nor Madame Georges could see his face. Taking the arm of Marie, he walked away with her towards the farm buildings, and so quickly, that, to keep up with him, Goualeuse was obliged to run, as in her infant days she ran beside the Chouette.
"Well, Madame Georges, what do you think of Marie?" inquired Rodolph.
"M. Rodolph, I have told you: she had scarcely entered my room, when, seeing the crucifix, she fell on her knees before it. It is impossible for me to tell you, to describe the spontaneous and naturally religious feeling that evidently dictated this. I saw in an instant that hers was no degraded soul. And then, M. Rodolph, the expression of her gratitude to you had nothing exaggerated in it; but it is not the less sincere. And I have another proof of how natural and potent is this religious instinct in her. I said to her, 'You must have been much astonished, and very happy, when M. Rodolph told you that you were to remain here for the future? What an effect it must have had on you!' 'Yes, oh, yes,' was her reply; 'when M. Rodolph told me so, I cannot describe what passed within me; but I felt that kind of holy happiness which I experience in going into a church. When I could go there,' she added, 'for you know, madame—' 'I know, my child, for I shall always call you my child (I could not let her go on when I saw her cover her face for shame), I know that you have suffered deeply; but God blesses those who love and fear him, those who have been unhappy, and those who repent.'"
"Then, my good Madame Georges, I am doubly happy at what I have done. This poor girl will greatly interest you, her disposition is so excellent, her instincts so right."
"What has besides affected me, M. Rodolph, is that she has not allowed one single question to escape her about you, although her curiosity must be so much excited. Struck with a reserve so full of delicacy, I wished to know what she felt. I said to her, 'You must be very curious to know who your mysterious benefactor is?' 'Know him!' she replied, with delightful simplicity; 'he is my benefactor.'"
"Then you will love her. Excellent woman! she will find some interest in your heart."
"Yes, I shall occupy my heart with her as I should with him," said Madame Georges, in a broken voice.
Rodolph took her hand.
"Do not be discouraged; come, come, if our search 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,
