she choose? You remember, Doctor, and
you, Plantat, her beautiful curls about her pure forehead, her great,
trembling eyes, her long curved lashes? Her smile--do you know, it
was the sun's ray of my life. I so loved her voice, and her mouth
so fresh, which gave me such warm, loving kisses. Dead! Lost! And
not to know what has become of her sweet form--perhaps abandoned in
the mire of some river. Do you recall the countess's body this
morning? It will kill me! Oh, my child--that I might see her one
hour--one minute--that I might give her cold lips one last kiss!"

M. Lecoq strove in vain to prevent a warm tear which ran from his
eyes, from falling. M. Lecoq was a stoic on principle, and by
profession. But the desolate words of the poor father overcame
him. Forgetting that his emotion would be seen, he came out from
the shadow where he had stood, and spoke to M. Courtois:

"I, Monsieur Lecoq, of the detectives, give you my honor that I
will find Mademoiselle Laurence's body."

The poor mayor grasped desperately at this promise, as a drowning
man to a straw.

"Oh, yes, we will find her, won't we? You will help me. They say
that to the police nothing is impossible--that they see and know
everything. We will see what has become of my child."

He went toward M. Lecoq, and taking him by the hand:

"Thank you," added he, "you are a good man. I received you ill a
while ago, and judged you with foolish pride: forgive me. We will
succeed--you will see, we will aid each other, we will put all the
police on the scent, we will search through France, money will do
it--I have it--I have millions--take them--"

His energies were exhausted: he staggered and fell heavily on the
lounge.

"He must not remain here long," muttered the doctor in Plantat's
ear, "he must get to bed. A brain fever, after such excitement,
would not surprise me."

The old justice of the peace at once approached Mme. Courtois, who
still reclined in the arm-chair, apparently having seen or heard
nothing of what had passed, and oblivious in her grief.

"Madame!" said he, "Madame!"

She shuddered and rose, with a wandering air.

"It is my fault," said she, "my miserable fault! A mother should
read her daughter's heart as in a book. I did not suspect Laurence's
secret; I am a most unhappy mother."

The doctor also came to her.

"Madame," said he, in an imperious tone, "your husband must be
persuaded to go to bed at once. His condition is very serious,