With the point of one of his fingers, as hard as iron, and covered with red hair, the notary rapped on a large leathern pocket-book which lay close beside him. Resolved on being as laconic, although trembling with rage, M. de Saint-Remy took from the pocket of his upper coat a Russian leather pocket-book, with gold clasps, from which he drew forth forty notes of a thousand francs each, and showed them to the notary.
"How many are there?" he inquired.
"Forty thousand francs."
"Hand them to me!"
"Take them! and let this have a speedy termination. Ply your trade, pay yourself, and give me the bills," said the viscount, as he threw the notes on the table, with an impatient air.
The notary took up the bank-notes, rose, went close to the window to examine them, turning and re-turning them over and over, one by one, with an attention so scrupulous, and really so insulting for M. de Saint-Rémy, that the viscount actually turned pale with rage. Jacques Ferrand, as if he had guessed the thoughts which were passing in the viscount's mind, shook his head, turned half towards him, and said to him, with an indefinable accent:
"I have seen – "
M. de Saint-Remy, confused for a moment, said, drily:
"What?"
"Forged bank-notes," replied the notary, continuing his scrutiny of a note, which he had not yet examined.
"What do you mean by that remark, sir?"
Jacques Ferrand paused for a moment, looked steadfastly at the viscount through his glasses, then, shrugging his shoulders slightly, he continued to investigate the notes, without uttering a syllable.
"Monsieur Notary! I would wish you to learn that, when I ask a question, I have an answer!" cried M. de Saint-Remy, exasperated at the coolness of Jacques Ferrand.
"These notes are good," said the notary, turning towards his bureau, whence he took a small bundle of stamped papers, to which were annexed two bills of exchange; then, putting down one of the bank-notes for one thousand francs and three rouleaus, of one hundred francs each, on the table, he said to M. de Saint-Remy, pointing to the money and the bills with his finger:
"Here's your change out of the forty thousand francs; my client has desired me to deduct the expenses."
The viscount had contained himself with great difficulty whilst Jacques Ferrand was making out the account, and, instead of taking up the money, he exclaimed, in a voice that literally shook with passion:
"I beg to know, sir, what you meant by saying, whilst you looked at the bank-notes which I handed to you, that you 'had seen forged notes?'"
"What I meant?"
"Yes."
"Because I sent for you to come here on a matter of forgery."
And the notary fixed his green spectacles on the viscount.
"And how can this forgery in any way affect me?"
After a moment's silence, M. Ferrand said to the viscount, with a stern air:
"Are you aware, sir, of the duties which a notary fulfils?"
"Those duties appear to me, sir, very simple indeed; just now I had forty thousand francs, now I have thirteen hundred francs left."
"You are facetious, sir; I will tell you that a notary is, in temporal matters, what a confessor is in spiritual affairs; by virtue of his position, he often becomes possessed of disgraceful secrets."
"Go on, I beg, sir."
"He is often brought into contact with rogues."
"Go on, sir."
"He ought, as well as he can, to prevent an honourable name from being dragged through the mud."
"What is all this to me?"
"Your father's name is deservedly respected; you, sir, dishonour it."
"How dare you, sir, to address such language to me?"
"But for the interest which the gentleman, of whom I speak, inspires in the minds of all honest men, instead of being summoned before me, you would, at this moment, be standing before a police-magistrate."
"I do not understand you."
"Two months since, you discounted, through an agent, a bill for fifty-eight thousand francs (2,320l.), accepted by the house of Meulaert & Company, of Hamburg, in favour of a certain William Smith, payable in three months, at the bank of M. Grimaldi, of Paris."
"Well?"
"That bill was a forgery."
"Impossible!"
"That bill was a forgery! the firm of Meulaert never gave such a bill to William Smith, and never had such a transaction with such an individual."
"Can this be true?" exclaimed M. de Saint-Rémy, with equal surprise and indignation; "then I have been most infamously deceived, sir, for I took the bill as ready money."
"From whom?"
"From M. William Smith himself; the house of Meulaert is so well known, and I was so firmly convinced myself of the honour of M. William Smith, that I took the bill in payment of a debt he owed me."
"William Smith never existed, – he is an imaginary personage."
"Sir, you insult me!"
"His signature is forged and false, as well as all the rest of the bill."
"I assert that M. William Smith is alive; but I must have been the dupe of a horrible abuse of confidence."
"Poor young man!"
"Explain yourself, sir."
"The actual holder of the bill is convinced you committed the forgery."
"Sir!"
"He declares that he has proof of this; and he came to me the day before yesterday, requesting me to see you, and offer to give up this forged document, under certain conditions. Up to this point all was straightforward, but what follows is not so, and I only speak to you now according to my instructions. He requires one hundred thousand francs (4,000l.) down this very day, or else to-morrow, at twelve o'clock at noon, the forged bill will be handed over to the king's attorney-general."
"This is infamous, sir!"
"It is more, – it is absurd. You are a ruined man; you were all but arrested for the sum which you have just paid me, and which you have scraped up I cannot tell from where; and this I have told to the holder of the bill, who replied, that a certain great and very rich lady would not allow you to remain in this embarrassment."
"Enough, sir! enough!"
"More infamous! more absurd! agreed."
"Well, sir, and what is required of me?"
"Why, to work out infamously an action infamously commenced. I have consented to communicate this proposition to you, although it disgusts me, as an honest man ought to feel disgust on such an occasion; but now it is your affair. If you are guilty, choose between a criminal court and the means of ransom offered to you; my duty is only an official one, and I will not dirty my fingers any further in so foul a transaction. The third party is called M. Petit-Jean, an oil merchant, who lives on the banks of the Seine, Quai de Billy, No. 10. Make your arrangements with him; you are fit to meet if you are a forger, as he declares."
M. de Saint-Remy had entered Jacques Ferrand's study with a lip all scorn, and a head all pride. Although he had in his life committed some shameful actions, he still retained a certain elevation of race, and an instinctive courage, which had never forsaken him. At the beginning of this conversation, considering the notary as an adversary beneath him, he had been content to treat him with disdain; but, when Jacques Ferrand began to talk of forgery, he felt annihilated; in his turn he felt himself rode over by the notary. But for the entire command of self which he possessed, he could not have concealed the terrible impression which this unexpected revelation disclosed to him, for it might have incalculable consequences to him, – consequences unsuspected by the notary himself. After a moment of silence and reflection, he resigned himself, – he, so haughty, so irritable, so vain of his self-possession! – to beg of this coarse man, who had so roughly addressed to him the stern language of probity:
"Sir, you give me a proof of your interest, for which I thank you, and I regret that any hasty expressions should have escaped me," said M. de Saint-Remy, with a tone of cordiality.
"I do not take the slightest interest in or for you," replied the notary, brutally. "Your father is the soul of honour, and I would not wish that in the depth of that solitude in which he lives, as they tell me, at Angers, he should learn that his name has been exposed, tarnished, degraded, in a court of justice, that's all."
"I repeat to you, sir, that I am incapable of the infamy which is attributed to me."
"You may tell that to M. Petit-Jean."
"But I confess that, in the absence of M. Smith, who has so unworthily abused my confidence, that – "
"The scoundrel Smith!"
"The absence of M. Smith places me in a cruel embarrassment. I am innocent, – let them accuse me, I will prove myself guiltless; but such an accusation, even, must always disgrace a gentleman."
"Well?"
"Be so good as to use the sum I have just handed to you in part payment to the person who holds the acceptance."
"That money belongs to a client and is sacred."
"In two or three days I will repay you."
"You will not be able."
"I have resources."
"You have none; not visible at least. Your household furniture, your horses, do not belong to you, as you declare; this has to me the appearance of a disgraceful fraud."
"You are severe, sir; but, admitting what you say, do you not suppose that I shall turn everything into money in such a desperate extremity? Only, as it will be impossible for me to procure, between this and noon to-morrow, the one hundred thousand francs, I entreat you to employ the money I have just handed to you in procuring this unfortunate bill, or, at least, as you are very rich, advance the money. Do not leave me in such a position."
"Me? Why, is the man mad?"
"Sir, I beseech you, in my father's name, which you have mentioned to me, be so kind as to – "
"I am kind to those who deserve it," said the notary, harshly. "An honest man myself, I hate swindlers, and should not be sorry to see one of those high-minded gentlemen, without faith or honour, impious and reprobate, put in the pillory, as an example to others; but I hear your horses, who are impatient to depart, M. le Vicomte," said the notary, with a smile that displayed his black fangs.
At this moment some one knocked at the door of the apartment.
"Who's there?" inquired Jacques Ferrand.
"Madame the Countess d'Orbigny," said the chief clerk.
"Request her to wait a moment."
"The stepmother of the Marchioness d'Harville?" exclaimed M. de Saint-Remy.
"Yes, sir; she has an appointment with me, – so, your servant, sir."
"Not a word of this, sir!" cried M. de Saint-Remy, in a menacing voice.
"I told you, sir, that a notary is as discreet as a confessor."
Jacques Ferrand rang, and the clerk appeared.
"Show Madame d'Orbigny in." Then, addressing the viscount, "Take these thirteen hundred francs, sir; they will be something towards an arrangement with M. Petit-Jean."
Madame d'Orbigny (formerly Madame Roland) entered at the moment when M. de Saint-Remy went out, his features convulsed with rage at having so uselessly humiliated himself before the notary.
"Ah, good day, M. de Saint-Remy," said Madame d'Orbigny; "what a time it is since I saw you!"
"Why, madame, since D'Harville's marriage, at which I was present, I do not think I have had the pleasure of meeting you," said M. de Saint-Remy, bowing, and assuming an affable and smiling demeanour. "You have remained in Normandy ever since, I think?"
"Why, yes! M. d'Orbigny will only live in the country, and what he likes I like; so you see in me a complete country wife. I have not been in Paris since the marriage of my dear stepdaughter with that excellent M. d'Harville. Do you see him frequently?"
"D'Harville has grown very sullen and morose; he is seldom seen in the world," said M. de Saint-Remy, with something like impatience, for the conversation was most irksome to him, both because of its untimeliness and that the notary seemed amused at it; but Madame d'Harville's stepmother, enchanted at thus meeting with a dandy of the first water, was not the woman to allow her prey to escape her so easily.
"And my dear stepdaughter," she continued, – "she, I hope, is not as morose as her husband?"
"Madame d'Harville is all the fashion, and has the world at her feet, as a lovely woman should have. But I take up your time, and – "
"Not at all, I assure you. It is quite agreeable to me to meet the 'observed of all observers,' – the monarch of fashion, – for, in ten minutes, I shall be as au fait of Paris as if I had never left it. And your dear M. de Lucenay, who was also present at M. d'Harville's marriage?"
"A still greater oddity. He has been travelling in the East, and returned in time to receive a sword-wound yesterday, – nothing serious, though."
"Poor dear duke! And his wife, always lovely and fascinating?"
"Madame, I have the honour to be one of her profoundest admirers, and my testimony would, therefore, be received with suspicion. I beg, on your return to Aubiers, you will not forget my regards to M. d'Orbigny."
"He will, I am sure, be most sensible of your kindness; he often talks of you, and says you remind him of the Duke de Lauzun."
"His comparison is a eulogy in itself, but, unfortunately, infinitely more flattering than true. Adieu, madame, for I fear I must not ask to be allowed to pay my respects to you before your departure."
"I should lament to give you the trouble of calling on me, for I have pitched my tent for a few days in a furnished hôtel; but if, in the summer or autumn, you should be passing our way, en route to some of those fashionable châteaus where the leaders of ton dispute the pleasure of receiving you, pray give us a few days of your society, if it be only by way of contrast, and to rest yourself with us poor rustic folk from the whirl of your high life of fashion and distinction; for where you are it is always delightful to be."
"Madame!"
"I need not say how delighted M. d'Orbigny and myself would be to receive you; but adieu, sir, I fear the kind attorney (she pointed to Ferrand) will grow impatient at our gossip."
"Quite the reverse, madame, quite the reverse," said Ferrand, with an emphasis that redoubled the repressed rage of M. de Saint-Remy.
"Is not M. Ferrand a terrible man?" said Madame d'Orbigny, affectedly. "Mind now, I tell you, that, if he has charge of your affairs, he will scold you awfully. He is the most unpitying man – But that's my nonsense; on the contrary, why, such an exquisite as you to have M. Ferrand for his solicitor is a proof of reformation, for we know very well that he never allows his clients to do foolish things; if they do, he gives up their business. Oh, he will not be everybody's lawyer!" Then, turning to Jacques Ferrand: "Do you know, most puritanical solicitor, that you have made a splendid conversion there? If you reform the exquisite of exquisites, the King of the Mode – "
"It is really a conversion, madame. The viscount left my study a very different man from what he entered it."
"There, I tell you that you perform miracles!"
"Ah, madame, you flatter me," said Jacques Ferrand, with emphasis.
M. de Saint-Remy made a low bow to Madame d'Orbigny, and then, as he left the notary, desirous of trying once more to excite his pity, he said to him, in a careless tone, which, however, betrayed deep anxiety:
"Then, my dear M. Ferrand, you will not grant me the favour I ask?"
"Some wild scheme, no doubt. Be inexorable, my dear Puritan," cried Madame d'Orbigny, laughing.
"You hear, sir? I must not contradict such a handsome lady."
"My dear M. Ferrand, let us speak seriously of serious things, and, you know, this is a most serious matter. Do you really refuse me?" inquired the viscount, with an anxiety which he could not altogether dissemble.
The notary was cruel enough to appear to hesitate; M. de Saint-Remy had an instant's hope.
"What, man of iron, do you yield?" said Madame d'Harville's stepmother, laughing still. "Do you, too, yield to the charm of the irresistible?"
"Ma foi, madame! I was on the point of yielding, as you say; but you make me blush for my weakness," added M. Ferrand. And then, addressing himself to the viscount, he said to him, with an accent of which Saint-Remy felt all the meaning, "Well then, seriously," (and he dwelt on the word), "it is impossible."
"Ah, the Puritan! Hark to the Puritan!" said Madame d'Orbigny.
"See M. Petit-Jean. He will think precisely as I do, I am sure, and, like me, will say to you 'No!'"
M. de Saint-Remy rushed out in despair.
After a moment's reflection he said to himself, "It must be so!" Then he added, addressing his chasseur, who was standing with the door of his carriage opened, "To the Hôtel de Lucenay."
Whilst M. de Saint-Remy is on his way to see the duchess, we will present the reader at the interview between M. Ferrand and the stepmother of Madame d'Harville.
CHAPTER V
THE CLIENTS
The reader may have forgotten the portrait of the stepmother of Madame d'Harville as drawn by the latter. Let us then repeat, that Madame d'Orbigny was a slight, fair, delicate woman, with eyelashes almost white, round and palish blue eyes, with a soft voice, a hypocritical air, insidious and insinuating manners. Any one who studied her treacherous and perfidious countenance would detect therein craft and cruelty.
"What a delightful young man M. de Saint-Remy is!" said Madame d'Orbigny to Jacques Ferrand, when the viscount had left them.
"Delightful! But, madame, let us now proceed to our business. You wrote to me from Normandy that you desired to consult me upon most serious matters."
"Have you not always been my adviser ever since the worthy Doctor Polidori introduced me to you? By the way, have you heard from him recently?" inquired Madame d'Orbigny, with an air of complete carelessness.
"Since he left Paris he has not written me a single line," replied the notary, with an air of similar indifference.
Let the reader understand that these two persons lied most unequivocally to each other. The notary had seen Polidori (one of his two accomplices) recently, and had proposed to him to go to Asnières, to the Martials, the fresh-water pirates, of whom we shall presently speak, – had proposed to him, we say, to poison Louise Morel, under the name of Doctor Vincent. Madame d'Harville's stepmother, on her side, had come to Paris in order to have a secret meeting with this scoundrel, who had been for a long time concealed, as we have said, under the name of César Bradamanti.
"But it is not the good doctor of whom we have to discourse," continued Madame d'Harville's stepmother. "You see me very uneasy. My husband is indisposed; his health becomes weaker and weaker every day. Without experiencing serious alarm, his condition gives me much concern, – or rather, gives him much concern," said Madame d'Orbigny, drying her eyes, which were slightly moistened.
"What is the business, madame?"
"He is constantly talking of making his last arrangements, – of his will." Here Madame d'Orbigny concealed her face in her pocket-handkerchief for some minutes.
"It is very afflicting, no doubt," said the notary; "but the precaution has nothing terrible in itself. And what may be M. d'Orbigny's intentions, madame?"
"Dear sir! How do I know? You may suppose that when he commences the subject I do not allow him to dwell on it long."
"Well, then, he has not up to this time told you anything positive?"
"I think," replied Madame d'Orbigny, with a deep sigh, – "I think that he wishes to leave me not only all that the law will allow him to bequeath to me, but – But, really, I pray of you, do not let us talk of that."
"Of what, then, shall we talk?"
"Alas, you are right, pitiless man! I must, in spite of myself, return to the sad subject that brings me here to see you. Well, then, M. d'Orbigny's inclination extends so far that he desires to sell a part of his estate and present me with a large sum."
"But his daughter – his daughter?" exclaimed M. Ferrand, harshly. "I must tell you that, during the last year, M. d'Harville has placed his affairs in my hands, and I have lately purchased a splendid estate for him. You know my blunt way of doing business? Whether M. d'Harville is my client or not is no matter. I stand up only for justice. If your husband makes up his mind to behave to his daughter in a way that I do not approve, I tell you plainly he must not reckon on my assistance. Upright and downright, such has always been my line of conduct."
"And mine, also! Therefore it is that I am always saying to my husband what you now say to me, 'Your daughter has behaved very ill to you, that is but too true; but that is no reason why you should disinherit her.'"
"Very good, – quite right! And what answer does he make to that?"
"He replies, 'I shall leave my daughter twenty-five thousand livres of annual income (1,000l.); she had more than a million (40,000l.) from her mother. Her husband has an enormous fortune of his own; and, therefore, why should I not leave you the residue of my fortune, – you, my tender love, the sole support, the only comfort of my declining years, my guardian angel?' I repeat these very flattering words to you," said Madame d'Orbigny, with an air of modesty, "to prove to you how kind M. d'Orbigny is to me. But, in spite of that, I have always refused his offers; and, as he perceives that, he has compelled me to come and seek you."
"But I do not know M. d'Orbigny."
"But he, like all the world, knows your high character."
"But why should he send you to me?"
"To put an end to all my scruples and refusals, he said to me, 'I will not ask you to consult my notary, because you will think him too much devoted to my service; but I will trust myself entirely to the decision of a man of whose extreme probity of character I have heard you so frequently speak in praise, – M. Jacques Ferrand. If he considers your delicacy compromised by your consent to my wishes, we will not say another word on the subject; otherwise, you must comply without a word.' 'I consent!' I replied to M. d'Orbigny. And so now you are the arbitrator between us. 'If M. Ferrand approves,' added my husband, 'I will send him ample power to realise in my name my rents and investments, and he shall keep the proceeds in his hands as a deposit; and thus, after my decease, my tender love, you will at least have an existence worthy of you.'"
Perhaps M. Ferrand never had greater need of his spectacles than at this moment; for, had he not worn them, Madame d'Orbigny would doubtless have been struck with the sparkle of the notary's eyes, which seemed to dart fire when the word deposit was pronounced. However, he replied, in his usual coarse way:
"It is very tiresome. This is the tenth or twelfth time that I have been made the arbitrator in a similar matter, always under the pretence of my honesty, – that is the only word in people's mouths. My honesty! – my honesty! What a fine quality, forsooth! – which only brings me in a great deal of tiresome trouble."
"My good M. Ferrand! Come, do not repulse me. You will write at once to M. d'Orbigny, who only awaits your letter to send you full powers to act for him, and to realise the sum required."
"Which amounts to how much?"
"Why, I think he said four or five hundred thousand francs" (16,000l. or 20,000l.).
"The sum, after all, is not so much as I thought. You are devoted to M. d'Orbigny. His daughter is very rich; you have nothing. That is not just; and I really think you should accept it."
"Really, do you think so, indeed?" said Madame d'Orbigny, who was the dupe, like the rest of the world, of the proverbial probity of the notary, and who had not been enlightened by Polidori in this particular.
"You may accept," he repeated.
"I will accept, then," said Madame d'Orbigny, with a sigh.
The chief clerk knocked at the door.
"Who is there?" inquired M. Ferrand.
"Madame the Countess Macgregor."
"Request her to wait a moment."
"I will go, then, my dear M. Ferrand," said Madame d'Orbigny. "You will write to my husband, since he wishes it, and he will send you the requisite authority by return of post?"
"I will write."
"Adieu, my worthy and excellent counsellor!"
"Ah, you do not know, you people of the world, how disagreeable it is to take charge of such deposits, – the responsibility which we then assume. I tell you that there is nothing more detestable in the world than this fine character for probity, which brings down upon one all these turmoils and troubles."
"And the admiration of all good people."
"Thank Heaven, I place otherwise than here below the hopes of the reward at which I aim!" said M. Ferrand, in a hypocritical tone.
To Madame d'Orbigny succeeded Sarah Macgregor.
Sarah entered the cabinet of the notary with her usual coolness and assurance. Jacques Ferrand did not know her, nor the motives of her visit, and he therefore scrutinised her carefully in the hope of catching another dupe. He looked most attentively at the countess; and, despite the imperturbability of this marble-fronted woman, he observed a slight working of the eyebrows, which betrayed a repressed embarrassment. The notary rose from his seat, handed a chair, and, motioning to Sarah to sit down, thus accosted her:
"You have requested of me, madame, an interview for to-day. I was very much engaged yesterday, and could not reply until this morning. I beg you will accept my apology for the delay."
"I was desirous of seeing you, sir, on a matter of the greatest importance. Your reputation for honesty, kindness, and complaisance has made me hope that the step I have taken with you will be successful."
The notary bent forward slightly in his chair.
"I know, sir, that your discretion is perfect."
"It is my duty, madame."
"You are, sir, a man of rigid, moral, and incorruptible character."
"Yes, madame."
"Yet, sir, if you were told that it depended on you to restore life – more than life, reason – to an unhappy mother, should you have the courage to refuse her?"
"If you will state the circumstances, madame, I shall be better able to reply."
"It is fourteen years since, at the end of the month of December, 1824, a man in the prime of life, and dressed in deep mourning, came to ask you to take, by way of life-annuity, the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs (6,000l.), which it was desired should be sunk in favour of a child of three years of age, whose parents were desirous of remaining unknown."
"Well, madame?" said the notary, careful not to reply in the affirmative.
"You assented, and took charge of this sum, agreeing to insure the child a yearly pension of eight thousand francs (320l.). Half this income was to accumulate for the child's benefit until of age; the other half was to be paid by you to the person who took care of this little girl."
"Well, madame?"
"At the end of two years," said Sarah, unable to repress a slight emotion, "on the 28th of November, 1827, the child died."
"Before we proceed any farther, madame, with this conversation, I must know what interest you take in this matter?"
"The mother of this little girl, sir, was – my sister.2 I have here proofs of what I advance: the declaration of the poor child's death, the letters of the person who took charge of her, and the acknowledgment of one of your clients with whom you have placed the hundred and fifty thousand francs."
"Allow me to see those papers, madame."
Somewhat astonished at not being believed on her word, Sarah drew from a pocket-book several papers, which the notary examined with great attention.
"Well, madame, what do you desire? The declaration of decease is perfectly in order. The hundred and fifty thousand francs came to my client, M. Petit-Jean, on the death of the child. It is one of the chances of life-annuities, as I remarked to the person who placed the affair in my hands. As to the pension, it was duly paid by me up to the time of the child's decease."
"I am ready to declare, sir, that nothing could be more satisfactory than your conduct throughout the whole of the affair. The female who had charge of the child is also entitled to our gratitude, for she took the greatest care of my poor little niece."
"True, madame. And I was so much satisfied with her conduct, that, seeing her out of place after the death of the child, I took her into my employment; and, since that time, she has remained with me."
"Is Madame Séraphin in your service, sir?"
"She has been my housekeeper these fourteen years, and I must ever speak in her praise."
"Since that is the case, sir, she may be of the greatest use to us, if you will kindly grant me a request, which may appear strange, perhaps even culpable, at first sight, but when you know the motive – "
"A culpable request, madame, is what I cannot believe you capable of addressing to me."
"Sir, I am acquainted with the rectitude of your principles; but all my hope – my only hope – is in your pity. Under any event, I may rely on your discretion?"
"Madame, you may."
"Well, then, I will proceed. The death of this poor child was so great a shock to her mother, that her grief is as great now as it was fourteen years since, and, having then feared for her life, we are now in dread for her reason."
"Poor mother!" said M. Ferrand, in a tone of sympathy.
"Oh, yes, poor unhappy mother, indeed, sir! for she could only blush at the birth of her child at the time when she lost it; whilst now circumstances are such, that, if the child were still alive, my sister could render her legitimate, be proud of her, and never again allow her to quit her. Thus this incessant regret, coming to add to her other sorrows, we are afraid every hour lest she should be bereft of her senses."
"It is unfortunate that nothing can be done in the matter."
"Yes, sir – "
"What, madame?"
"Suppose some one told the poor mother, 'Your child was reported to be dead, but she did not die: the woman who had charge of her when she was little could vouch for this.'"
"Such a falsehood, madame, would be cruel. Why give so vain a hope to the poor mother?"
"But, supposing it were not a falsehood, sir? or, rather, if the supposition could be realised?"
"By a miracle? If it only required my prayers to be united with your own to obtain this result, I would give them to you from the bottom of my heart, – believe me, madame. Unfortunately, the register of decease is strictly regular."