"No, you are a poor child lured away by a wretch. You say you are very guilty; perhaps so; live to repent of it. Great sorrows like yours have their missions in this world, one of devotion and charity. Live, and the good you do will attach you once more to life. You have yielded to the deceitful promises of a villain. Remember, when you are rich, that there are poor innocent girls forced to lead a life of miserable shame for a morsel of bread. Go to these unhappy creatures, rescue them from debauchery, and their honor will be yours."
M. Lecoq narrowly watched Laurence as he spoke, and perceived that he had touched her. Still, her eyes were dry, and were lit up with a strange light.
"Besides, your life is not your own—you know."
"Ah," she returned, "I must die now, even for my child, if I would not die of shame when he asks for his father—"
"You will reply, Madame, by showing him an honest man and an old friend, who is ready to give him his name—Monsieur Plantat."
The old justice was broken with grief; yet he had the strength to say:
"Laurence, my beloved child, I beg you accept me—"
These simple words, pronounced with infinite gentleness and sweetness, at last melted the unhappy young girl, and determined her. She burst into tears.
She was saved.
M. Lecoq hastened to throw a shawl which he saw on a chair about her shoulders, and passed her arm through M. Plantat's, saying to the latter: