ndeed," 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.

"I was blind, blind!" cried he. "For I received him at my house,
and called him my friend. Oh, have I not a right to a terrible
vengeance?"

But the crime at Valfeuillu occurred to him; and it was with a tone
of deep disappointment that he resumed:

"And not to be able to revenge myself! I could riot, then, kill
him with my own hands, see him suffer for hours, hear him beg for
mercy! He is dead. He has fallen under the blows of assassins,
less vile than himself."

The doctor and M. Plantat strove to comfort the unhappy man; but
he went on, excited more and more by the sound of his own voice.

"Oh, Laurence, my beloved, why did you not confide in me? You
feared my anger, as if a father would ever cease to love his child.
Lost, degraded, fallen to the ranks of the vilest, I would still
love thee. Were you not my own? Alas! you knew not a father's
heart. A father does not pardon; he forgets. You might still have
been happy, my lost love."

He wept; a thousand memories of the time when Laurence was a child
and played about his knees recurred to his mind; it seemed as though
it were but yesterday.

"Oh, my daughter, was it that you feared the world--the wicked,
hypocritical world? But we should have gone away. I should have
left Orcival, resigned my office. We should have settled down far
away, in the remotest corner of France, in Germany, in Italy. With
money all is possible. All? No! I have millions, and yet my
daughter has killed herself."

He concealed his face in his hands; his sobs choked him.

"And not to know what has become of her!" he continued. "Is it not
frightful? What death did