the trade-envy of Brusson's fellow-artificers made them concert
together against him, so that his business decreased day by day, until
at last he could hardly earn enough for a bare subsistence. Along with
this he felt an ardent longing to see once more his beautiful native
city of Geneva; accordingly the small family moved thither, in spite of
De Scuderi's opposition and her promises of every possible means of
support Anne wrote two or three times to her foster-mother, and then
nothing more was heard from her; so that Mademoiselle had to take
refuge in the conclusion that the happy life they were leading in
Brusson's native town prevented their memories dwelling upon the days
that were past and gone. It was now just twenty-three years since
Brusson had left Paris along with his wife and child and had gone to
Geneva.

"Oh! horrible!" exclaimed De Scuderi when she had again recovered
herself to some extent. "Oh! horrible! are you Olivier? my Anne's son?
And now----" "Indeed, honoured lady," replied Olivier calmly and
composedly, "indeed you never could, I suppose, have any the least idea
that the boy whom you fondled with all a mother's tenderness, into
whose mouth you never tired of putting sweets and candies as you tossed
him on your lap, whom you called by the most caressing names, would,
when grown up to be a young man, one day stand before you accused of an
atrocious crime. I am not free from reproach; the _Chambre Ardente_ may
justly bring a charge against me; but by my hopes of happiness after
death, even though it be by the executioner's hand, I am innocent of
this bloody deed; the unhappy Cardillac did not perish through me, nor
through any guilty connivance on my part." So saying, Olivier began to
shake and tremble. Mademoiselle silently pointed to a low chair which
stood beside him, and he slowly sank down upon it.

"I have had plenty of time to prepare myself for my interview with
you," he began, "which I regard as the last favour to be granted me by
Heaven in token of my reconciliation with it, and I have also had time
enough to gain what calmness and composure are needful in order to
relate to you the history of my fearful and unparalleled misfortunes. I
entreat your pity, that you will listen calmly to me, however much you
may be surprised--nay, even struck with horror, by the disclosure of a
secret which I am sure you have never for a moment suspected. Oh! that
my poor father had never left Paris! As f