e Brusson's had left
Paris for Geneva.

"Horrible!" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, when she had to some extent
recovered herself. "You, Olivier! the son of my Anne! And now!----"

"Mademoiselle!" said Olivier, quietly and composedly, "doubtless you
never thought that the boy whom you cherished like the tenderest of
mothers, whom you dandled on your knee, and to whom you gave
sweetmeats, would, when grown to manhood, stand before you accused of a
terrible murder. I am completely innocent! The Chambre Ardente charges
me with a crime; but, as I hope to die a Christian's death, though it
may be by the executioner's hand--I am free from all blood-guiltiness.
Not by my hand--not by any crime of my committing, was it that the
unfortunate Cardillac came to his end."

As he said this, Olivier began to tremble and shake so, that
Mademoiselle Scuderi motioned him to a little seat which was near him.

"I have had sufficient time," he went on, "to prepare myself for this
interview with you--which I look upon as the last favour of a
reconciled Heaven--and to acquire as much calmness and self-control as
are necessary to tell you the story of my terrible, unheard-of
misfortunes. Be so compassionate as to listen to me calmly, whatever
may be your horror at the disclosure of a mystery of which you
certainly have not the smallest inkling. Ah! would to Heaven my poor
father had never left Paris! As far as my recollections of Geneva carry
me, I remember myself as being always bedewed with tears by my
inconsolable parents, and weeping, myself, at their lamentations, which
I did not understand. Later, there came to me a clear sense--a full
comprehension--of the bitterest and most grinding poverty, want, and
privation in which they were living. My father was deceived in all his
expectations; bowed down and broken with sorrow, he died, just when he
had managed to place me as apprentice with a goldsmith. My mother spoke
much of you; she longed to tell you all her misfortunes, but the
despondency which springs from poverty prevented her. That, and also,
no doubt, false modesty, which often gnaws at a mortally wounded heart,
kept her from carrying out her idea. She followed my father to the
grave a few months after his death."

"Poor Anne! Poor Anne!" said Mademoiselle Scuderi, overwhelmed by
sorrow.

"I thank and praise the eternal power that she has gone where she
cannot see her beloved son fall, branded with disgrace, by the hand of
the ex