"Louise!--my daughter!" cried the lapidary, rising, "but what can justice--the law--do against that? We are but poor wretches, and were we to accuse this rich, powerful, and respected man, we should be laughed to scorn. Ha! ha! ha!" and he laughed convulsively, "and they would be right. Where would be our proofs?--yes, our proofs? No one would believe us. So, I tell you--I tell you," he added, with increased fury, "I tell you that I have no confidence but in the impartiality of my knife." "Silence, Morel! your grief distracts you," said Rodolph to him sorrowfully; "let your daughter speak; the moments are precious; the magistrate waits; I must know all,--all, I tell you; go on, my child." Morel fell back on the stool, overwhelmed with his anguish. "It is useless, sir," continued Louise, "to tell you of my tears, my prayers. I was thunderstruck. This took place at ten o'clock in the morning in M. Ferrand's private room. The curate was coming to breakfast with him, and entered at the moment when my master was assailing me with reproach and accusations. He appeared much put out at the sight of the priest." "What occurred then?" "Oh, he soon recovered himself, and exclaimed, call him by name, 'Well, Monsieur l'Abbe, I said so, I said this unhappy girl would be undone. She is ruined, ruined for ever; she has just confessed to me her fault and her shame, and entreated me to save her. Only think that, from commiseration, I have received such a wanton into my house!' 'How,' said the abbe to me with indignation, 'in spite of the excellent counsels which your master has given you a hundred times in my presence, have you really sunk so low? Oh, it is unpardonable! My friend, my friend, after the kindness you have evinced towards this wretched girl and her family, any pity would be weakness. Be inexorable,' said the abbe, the dupe, like the rest of the world, of M. Ferrand's hypocrisy." "And you did not unmask the scoundrel on the spot?" asked Rodolph.