"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