prisoners. To say that
she is called La Goualeuse is to urge you to obtain her liberty
instantly. The poor girl will tell you under what circumstances
she was carried off from the asylum in which you had placed her,
and was put in prison, where, at least, the candour and
sweetness of her disposition have been appreciated. Permit me,
also, to recall to you my two future protegees, the unhappy
mother and daughter despoiled by the notary Ferrand,--where are
they? I pray of you to try and discover them, so that, on my
return to Paris, I may pay the debt I have contracted towards
all unfortunate beings."

"What! Has La Goualeuse, then, left the Bouqueval farm?" inquired
Murphy, as much astonished as Rodolph at this fresh discovery.

"Just now I was informed that she had been seen quitting St. Lazare,"
replied Rodolph. "I am quite bewildered on the subject; Madame Georges's
silence surprises and disturbs me. Poor little Fleur-de-Marie, what
fresh disasters can have befallen her? Send a man on horseback directly
to the farm, and write to Madame Georges that I beg of her to come to
Paris instantly. Request M. de Grauen to procure for me a permission to
visit St. Lazare. By what Madame d'Harville says to me, Fleur-de-Marie
must be confined there. Yet, no," he added, "she cannot be there, for
Rigolette saw her leave the prison with an aged woman. Could it be
Madame Georges? If not, who could be the woman that accompanied La
Goualeuse?"

"Patience, monseigneur; before the evening you will know all about it.
Then to-morrow you can interrogate that vagabond Polidori, who has, he
assures me, important disclosures to make,--but to you alone."

"This interview will be most odious to me!" said Rodolph, sorrowfully;
"for I have never seen this man since the fatal day when I--"

Rodolph, unable to finish, hid his face in his hands.

"But, monseigneur, why accede to Polidori's request? Threaten him with
the justice of the French law, or immediate surrender to your authority,
and then he will reveal to me what he now declares he will only reveal
to you."

"You are right, my worthy friend; for the presence of this wretch would
make my terrible recollections even still more distressing, connected as
they are with incurable griefs,--from my father's death to that of my
daughter. I know not how it is, but as I advance in life the more I seem
to miss that dear child. How I should have adored her! How very de