"It is I, madame; pray let me come in." She evidently recognized my voice, for she opened the door at once. She looked earnestly at me, and said, pointing to the cradle with a heartrending expression: "Why do you come now? She isn't here any longer; you can't do anything more for her; and I--oh! I don't need anything now." She fell, exhausted, on a chair. But I stood in front of her and said, in a respectful and firm tone: "I have one more duty to perform. Be good enough to come with me, madame; take your bonnet and shawl, and come with me, I beg. I ask it in your daughter's name." Mignonne gazed at me in surprise; but I had no sooner mentioned her daughter, than she rose, hastily put on what she needed, and was ready in a moment. I went downstairs first, and she followed me. Mère Potrelle stared when she saw us pass her door; but I did not stop. I had come in a cab, which was waiting at the door. I asked Mignonne to get in, and she complied without asking any questions. I took my seat beside her; the cabman knew where to take us, and we drove away. Mignonne did not open her lips, and I respected her silence. Thus we traversed the distance that separated us from the cemetery of Père-Lachaise. Our cab stopped at the gate of that place of repose. I alighted first, and gave my hand to Mignonne. When she recognized the place where we were, she seemed to feel a sudden shock; her eyes brightened, she looked into my face, then eagerly seized my hand and walked beside me, never relaxing her grasp; I felt her hand tremble in mine. I led her for some time through the paths between the graves. At last, I stopped on the summit of a hill where there was a sort of enclosure formed by a number of cypresses. I led her into that enclosure, where there was a monument as simple as the body beneath it. It was a flat stone, lying on the ground, with a white marble column standing at its head. On that column was an angel flying away from a cradle, and at the base these words only: HERE RESTS MARIE LANDERNOY That modest monument was surrounded by newly planted flowers, and the whole was enclosed by a low iron fence. I opened the gate, of which I had the key, and pointed to the stone, saying simply: "Your daughter is there." The young woman, who had followed me in silence, but trembling nervously for a reason which I could well understand, gazed vacantly at the little cenotaph at first; but when she read her daughter's name on the marble, she uttered a cry, fell on her knees as if to thank heaven, then rose again, weeping, threw herself into my arms, and pressed me to her heart, murmuring: "My friend! my friend! And I was suspicious of you! Oh! forgive me! I love you dearly, now! My daughter is lying there; I can come now and pray upon her grave, and tend and renew the flowers that surround it. Ah! I breathe more freely now; you have given me courage to keep on living."