e longer Mademoiselle
allowed her eyes to rest upon his face, the more forcibly was she
reminded of some loved person, whom she could not in any way clearly
call to mind. All her feelings of shivery uncomfortableness left her;
she forgot that it was Cardillac's murderer who was kneeling before
her; she spoke in the calm pleasing tone of goodwill that was
characteristic of her, "Well, Brusson, what have you to tell me?" He,
still kneeling, heaved a sigh of unspeakable sadness, that came from
the bottom of his heart, "Oh! honoured, highly esteemed lady, can you
have lost all traces of recollection of me?" Mademoiselle scanned his
features more narrowly, and replied that she had certainly discovered
in his face a resemblance to some one she had once loved, and that it
was entirely owing to this resemblance that she had overcome her
detestation of the murderer, and was listening to him calmly.

Brusson was deeply hurt at these words; he rose hastily to his feet and
took a step, backwards, fixing his eyes gloomily on the floor. "Then
you have completely forgotten Anne Guiot?" he said moodily; "it is her
son Olivier,--the boy whom you often tossed on your lap--who now stands
before you." "Oh help me, good Heaven!" exclaimed Mademoiselle,
covering her face with both hands and sinking back upon the cushions.
And reason enough she had to be thus terribly affected. Anne Guiot, the
daughter of an impoverished burgher, had lived in De Scuderi's house
from a little girl, and had been brought up by Mademoiselle with all
the care and faithfulness which a mother expends upon her own child.
Now when she was grown up there came a modest good-looking young man,
Claude Brusson by name, and he wooed the girl. And since he was a
thoroughly clever watchmaker, who would be sure to find a very good
living in Paris, and since Anne had also grown to be truly fond of him,
De Scuderi had no scruples about giving her consent to her adopted
daughter's marriage. The young people, having set up housekeeping, led
a quiet life of domestic happiness; and the ties of affection were knit
still closer by the birth of a marvellously pretty boy, the perfect
image of his lovely mother.

De Scuderi made a complete idol of little Olivier, carrying him off
from his mother for hours and days together to caress him and to fondle
him. Hence the boy grew quite accustomed to her, and would just as
willingly be with her as with his mother. Three years passed away, when