nt--the last--before resorting to the rack,
for which Brusson is long since ripe."

Mademoiselle Scuderi shuddered involuntarily.

"Understand, Mademoiselle," he continued, "you would by no means be
expected to go again into those gloomy dungeons, which inspired you
with such horror and loathing. Olivier would be brought to your own
house, in the night, like a free man; what he should say would not be
listened to, though, of course, there would be a proper guard with him.
He could thus tell you freely and unconstrainedly all he had to say. As
regards any risk which you might run in seeing the wretched being, my
life shall answer for that. He speaks of you with the deepest
veneration; he vows that it is the dark mystery which prevented his
seeing you earlier which has brought him to destruction. Moreover, it
would rest with you entirely to repeat as much or as little as you
pleased of what Brusson confessed to you. How could you be constrained
to more?"

Mademoiselle Scuderi sat with eyes fixed on the ground, in deep
reflection. It seemed to her that she could not but obey that Higher
Power which demanded of her the clearing up of this mystery--as if
there were no escape for her from the wondrous meshes in which she had
become inwound without her will. Coming to a rapid decision, she said
with solemnity, "God will give me self-command and firm resolution.
Bring Brusson here; I will see him."

As on the night when the jewel-casket had been brought, so now, at
midnight, there came a knocking at the door. Baptiste, properly
instructed, opened. Mademoiselle Scuderi's blood ran cold when she
heard the heavy tread of the guard party which had brought Brusson
stationing themselves about the passages.

At length the door opened, Desgrais came in, and after him, Olivier
Brusson, without irons, and respectably dressed.

"Here is Brusson, Mademoiselle," said Desgrais, bowing courteously; he
then departed at once.

Brusson sank down on both knees before Mademoiselle Scuderi. The pure,
clear expression of a most truthful soul beamed from his face, though
it was drawn and distorted by terror and bitter pain. The longer she
looked at him, the more vivid became a remembrance of some well-loved
person--she could not say whom. When the first feeling of shuddering
left her, she forgot that Cardillac's murderer was kneeling before her,
and, speaking in the pleasant tone of quiet goodwill which was natural
to her, said--

"Now, Br