"Alas, madame, in my fright I did not reflect that my oath would prevent me from informing them; now it gives me much pain, but I believe that, without breaking my oath, I can beg you to write to Madame George, at the farm of Bouqueval, to have no uneasiness about me, without telling her where I am, for I have promised to be silent." "My child, these precautions will become useless if, at my recommendation, you are pardoned; to-morrow you shall return to the farm, without having broken your oath; you can then consult your benefactors, to know how far you are restricted by this oath, drawn from you by threats." "You think, madame, that, thanks to your kindness, I can hope to leave here soon?" "You deserve so much interest, that I shall succeed, I am sure, and I doubt not that after to-morrow you can go yourself to reassure your benefactors." "How can I have merited so much kindness on your ladyship's part? How can I show my gratitude?" "By continuing to conduct yourself as you have done. I only regret I can do nothing for your future welfare-it is a pleasure that your friends have reserved." Madame Armand entered suddenly, with an alarmed air. "Madame," said she to Clemence, with hesitation, "I am grieved at the message I have to deliver to you." "What do you mean to say, madame?" "The Duke de Lucenay is below-he comes from your house, madame." "You frighten me; what is it?" "I am ignorant, madame, but M. de Lucenay has information for you, he says, as sad, as it was unforeseen. He learned at his wife's that you were here and he came in all haste." "Sad news!" said Madame d'Harville. Then suddenly she cried in a heart-rending tone, "My daughter-my child, perhaps! Oh, speak, madame!" "I am ignorant, madame." "Oh! in mercy, madame, take me to M. de Lucenay," cried Madame d'Harville, going out, quite bewildered, and followed by Madame Armand. "Poor mother!" said the Gonaleuse, sadly; "oh, now, it is impossible! At the moment even when she was showing so much benevolence toward me, such a blow to fall! No, no-once more, it is impossible!" CHAPTER XVII. A FORGED INTIMACY. We will conduct the reader to the house in the Rue du Temple, the day of the suicide of M. d'Harville, about three o'clock in the afternoon. Pipelet, the porter, alone in the lodge, was occupied in mending a boot. The chaste porter was dejected and melancholy. As a soldier, in the humiliation of his defeat, passes his hand sadly over his scars, Pipelet breathed a profound sigh, stopped his work, and moved his trembling finger over the transverse fracture of his huge hat, made by an insolent hand. Then all the chagrin, inquietude, and fears of Alfred Pipelet were awakened in thinking of the inconceivable and incessant pursuits of the author. Pipelet had not a very extended or elevated mind; his imagination was not the most lively nor the most poetical, but he possessed a very solid, very logical, very common sense.