"Let us go, Plantat, and look for her at the Morgue." Then he fell back again, muttering the lugubrious word, "the Morgue." The witnesses of this scene remained, mute, motionless, rigid, holding their breath. The stifled sobs and groans of Mme. Courtois and the little maid alone broke the silence. "You know that I am your friend--your best friend," said M. Plantat, softly; "confide in me--tell me all." "Well," commenced M. Courtois, "know"--but his tears choked his utterance, and he could not go on. Holding out a crumpled letter, wet with tears, he stammered: "Here, read--it is her last letter." M. Plantat approached the table, and, not without difficulty, read: "DEARLY BELOVED PARENTS-- "Forgive, forgive, I beseech you, your unhappy daughter, the distress she is about to cause you. Alas! I have been very guilty, but the punishment is terrible! In a day of wandering, I forgot all--the example and advice of my dear, sainted mother, my most sacred duty, and your tenderness. I could not, no, I could not resist him who wept before me in swearing for me an eternal love--and who has abandoned me. Now, all is over; I am lost, lost. I cannot long conceal my dreadful sin. Oh, dear parents, do not curse me. I am your daughter--I cannot bear to face contempt, I will not survive my dishonor. "When this letter reaches you, I shall have ceased to live; I shall have quitted my aunt's, and shall have gone far away, where no one will find me. There I shall end my misery and despair. Adieu, then, oh, beloved parents, adieu! I would that I could, for the last time, beg your forgiveness on my knees. My dear mother, my good father, have pity on a poor wanderer; pardon me, forgive me. Never let my sister Lucile know. Once more, adieu--I have courage--honor commands! For you is the last prayer and supreme thought of your poor LAURENCE." Great tears rolled silently down the old man's cheeks as he deciphered this sad letter. A cold, mute, terrible anger shrivelled the muscles of his face. When he had finished, he said, in a hoarse voice: "Wretch!" M. Courtois heard this exclamation. "Ah, yes, wretch indeed," he cried, "this vile villain who has crept in in the dark, and stolen my dearest treasure, my darling child! Alas, she knew nothing of life. He whispered into her ear those fond words which make the hearts of all young girls throb; she had faith in him; and now he abandons her. Oh, if I knew who he was--if I knew--" He suddenly interrupted himself. A ray of intelligence had just illumined the abyss of despair into which he had fallen. "No," said he, "a young girl is not thus abandoned, when she has a dowry of a million, unless for some good reason. Love passes away; avarice remains. The infamous wretch was not free--he was married. He could only be the Count de Tremorel. It is he who has killed my child." The profound silence which succeeded proved to him that his conjecture was shared by those around him.