“Mademoiselle Lichtenbach can have nothing in common with the Baroness Grodsko.” Sophia gave a gesture of indifference. “Very well. As you please. _Au revoir_, Lichtenbach.” She was going in the direction of the hall when he stopped her. “Not that way.” Opening a door, concealed behind some folds of tapestry, he said— “Go down this staircase, you will meet no one.” “There is no trap-dungeon at the bottom?” she asked, laughingly. “No; there is only the concierge’s room.” “Adieu. No ill will?” “I should think not; you ought to be well satisfied. You carry away with you indulgences to the extent of a hundred thousand francs. _Au revoir_.” She disappeared. He returned to his desk in dreamy mood. This woman, so dangerous and depraved, always disturbed him, though he knew her well. A knock at the door threw him from his reverie. Rising to open it, an expression of pleasure came into his face. It was his daughter, who had come to see him. “Am I not disturbing you?” she asked, with a shade of uneasiness in her voice. “No, my darling, you never disturb me. Have you had a pleasant visit?” “Very pleasant. They were all very kind to me.” Lichtenbach said nothing; his eyes fell on the ground. He did not wish his daughter to catch their expression. “Madeline is very fortunate to find such devoted friends in her trouble. Madame Baradier is an excellent lady. She is going to keep the poor girl with them. Although I am very sorry she is leaving the convent, since we shall be separated in future, I am very glad to know that she has found such good friends. It will be like a renewal of life for her.” “You are so sympathetic, my little Marianne.” “The blow which has struck Madeline is so terrible. Can anything more terrible happen to a child than to lose its parents? And when one has no longer one’s mother, as was the case with both of us.” The young girl’s voice shook, tears stood in her eyes. Lichtenbach turned pale, but kept his eyes still fixed on the ground. “It was this similarity of situation which, from the very first day, drew us together. Our common sorrow has been the source of our affection. It seemed to us that, as we were less loved than the rest we ought to be all the dearer to one another. She had for her father the same affection I have for you. It seems he was a great _savant_. Did you know him?” He was obliged to reply. In tremulous tones he said—“No; I have only heard mention of him.” “He was a very close friend of M. Baradier, and the godfather of his son Marcel. They all bewail his loss.” Lichtenbach raised his eyes from the ground; he looked at his daughter with keen look— “Who has told you all this?” “Madame Baradier and Madeline.” “You have spoken to Mademoiselle Baradier?” “Yes; and to her mother as well.” “And the son also, perhaps?” The sudden harshness of tone in Lichtenbach’s questions troubled Marianne. She stopped astonished—