"But no--he wished to imprison me this morning," continued Morel; "it is not he? oh, so much the better! so much the better. She has no excuse for her fault; I can curse her without remorse." "No, no! do not curse me, my father; to you I will tell all; to you alone; and you will see--you will see if I do not deserve your pardon." "Listen to her for the sake of pity," said Rudolph. "What can she tell me? her infamy? it will soon be public; I will wait." "Sir!" cried Louise to the magistrate, "in mercy let me say a few words to my father before leaving him, perhaps forever. And before you also, our savior, I will speak, but only before you and my father." "I consent," said the magistrate. "Will you, then, be insensible? will you refuse this last consolation to your child?" asked Rudolph. "If you think you owe me some return for the favors I have directed toward you, grant the prayer of your daughter." After a moment of mournful silence, Morel answered, "Let us go." "But where shall we go?" asked Rudolph; "your family is in the next room." "Where shall we go?" cried the artisan, with bitter irony, "where shall we go? up there--up there, in the garret, alongside of the body of my child. The place is well chosen for this confession--is it not? Come--we will see if Louise will dare to lie in the sight of her sister. Come!" Morel went out precipitately, with a wild stare, without looking at Louise." "Sir," whispered the officer to Rudolph, "do not prolong this interview. You said truly, his reason will not sustain it; just now his look was that of a madman." "Alas! sir, I fear, like you, a terrible and new misfortune: I will shorten as much as possible the touching adieus." And Rudolph rejoined the artisan and his daughter. CHAPTER II. CONFESSION. Dark and gloomy spectacle. In the garret reposed, on the couch of the idiot, the corpse of the little child. An old piece of sheet covered it. Rudolph standing with his back to the wall, was painfully affected. Morel, seated on his work-bench, his head down, hands hanging; his looks, fixed, wild, were constantly bent on the bed where reposed the remains of the little Adele. At this sight, the anger, the indignation of the artisan became weaker, and changed into a sadness of inexpressible bitterness; his energy abandoned him--he sunk under this new blow. Louise, of a mortal paleness, felt her strength fail her. The revelation that she was about to make frightened her. Yet she took tremblingly the hand of her father--that poor, thin hand, deformed by excess of labor. He did not withdraw it. Then his daughter, bursting into tears, covered it with kisses, and soon felt it press lightly against her lips. The anger of Morel had ceased; his tears, for a long time retained, flowed at last. "My father, if you knew--if you knew how much I am to be pitied."