ul of a
father, my only blessing, my life, my daughter? Since the death of that
angel, your mother, I have dreamed but of one thing,--the happiness of
pressing you to my heart in the face of the whole earth, of burying
the convict,--" He paused a moment, and then added: "--of giving you a
father, a father who could press without shame your husband's hand, who
could live without fear in both your hearts, who could say to all the
world, 'This is my daughter,'--in short, to be a happy father."

"Oh, father! father!"

"After infinite difficulty, after searching the whole globe," continued
Ferragus, "my friends have found me the skin of a dead man in which to
take my place once more in social life. A few days hence, I shall be
Monsieur de Funcal, a Portuguese count. Ah! my dear child, there are few
men of my age who would have had the patience to learn Portuguese and
English, which were spoken fluently by that devil of a sailor, who was
drowned at sea."

"But, my dear father--"

"All has been foreseen, and prepared. A few days hence, his Majesty John
VI., King of Portugal will be my accomplice. My child, you must have a
little patience where your father has had so much. But ah! what would
I not do to reward your devotion for the last three years,--coming
religiously to comfort your old father, at the risk of your own peace!"

"Father!" cried Clemence, taking his hands and kissing them.

"Come, my child, have courage still; keep my fatal secret a few days
longer, till the end is reached. Jules is not an ordinary man, I know;
but are we sure that his lofty character and his noble love may not
impel him to dislike the daughter of a--"

"Oh!" cried Clemence, "you have read my heart; I have no other fear than
that. The very thought turns me to ice," she added, in a heart-rending
tone. "But, father, think that I have promised him the truth in two
hours."

"If so, my daughter, tell him to go to the Portuguese embassy and see
the Comte de Funcal, your father. I will be there."

"But Monsieur de Maulincour has told him of Ferragus. Oh, father, what
torture, to deceive, deceive, deceive!"

"Need you say that to me? But only a few days more, and no living man
will be able to expose me. Besides, Monsieur de Maulincour is beyond
the faculty of remembering. Come, dry your tears, my silly child, and
think--"

At this instant a terrible cry rang from the room in which Jules
Desmarets was stationed.

The clamor was heard by M