"As for the last duties that have now to be performed for your poor child," said Rodolph, "if you will be guided by me, this is how we will arrange it. I have not yet begun to occupy my chamber; it is large, airy, and convenient. There is already one bed in it; and I will give orders to add all that may be requisite for the accommodation of yourself and family, until Madame d'Harville is enabled to find an eligible abode for you. The remains of your little daughter can then be left in your attic, where, until the period of interment, they can be properly watched and guarded by a priest with all requisite attention. I will request M. Pipelet to take upon himself every necessary arrangement for the mournful office of laying the poor babe in its peaceful grave."
"Nay, sir,—but, indeed, I cannot allow you to be turned out of your apartment! Now that we are so happily freed from our misery, and that I have no longer the dread of being dragged to prison, our poor garret will seem to me like a palace,—more especially if my Louise remains to watch over the family as she used to do."
"Your daughter shall never again quit you. You said, awhile ago, that the first desire of your heart was to have Louise always with you. Well then, as a reward for your past sufferings, I promise you she shall never leave you more."
"Oh, sir, this is too much; it cannot be reality! It seems as though I were dreaming some happy dream. I fear I have never been as religious as I ought. I have, in fact, known no other religion than that of honour. But such a reverse, such a change from wretchedness to joy, would make even an atheist believe, if not in priests, at least in a gracious, interposing, and preserving Providence."
"And if," said Rodolph, sadly, "a father's sorrow for the loss of his child can be assuaged by promises of rewards or recompense, I would say that the heavenly hand which takes one child from you gives you back the other."
"True,—most true! And henceforward our dear Louise will be with us to help us to forget our poor Adèle."
"Then you will accept the offer of my chamber, will you not? Or else how shall we be able to arrange for the mournful duties to the poor infant? Think of your wife, whose head is already in so weak a state. It will never do to allow her to remain with so afflicting a spectacle constantly before her eyes."
"What goodness," exclaimed the lapidary, "thus to remember all,—to think of all! Oh, you are indeed a friend! May Heaven bless and recompense you!"
"Come, you must reserve your thanks for the excellent lady you term your protecting angel. 'Tis her goodness inspires me with a desire to imitate her benevolence and charity. I feel assured I am but speaking as she would speak, were she here, and that all I do she will fully approve. So now, then, it is arranged you will occupy my room. But, just tell me, this Jacques Ferrand—"
The forehead of Morel became clouded over at the mention of this name.