"He is jesting at us; he wants to save the notary," replied Morel, quite crazed, and struggling with Rodolph. At the end of a second, the latter disarmed him, carefully opened the door, and threw the file out on the staircase. Louise ran to the lapidary, embraced him, and said:
"Father, it is our benefactor! You have raised your hand against him,—recover yourself."
These words recalled Morel to himself, and hiding his face in his hands, he fell mutely on his knees before Rodolph.
Morel fell back on the stool.
Original Etching by Adrian Marcel.
"Rise, rise, unhappy father," said Rodolph, in accents of great kindness; "be patient, be patient, I understand your wrath and share your hatred; but, in the name of your vengeance, do not compromise your daughter!"
"Louise!—my daughter!" cried the lapidary, rising, "but what can justice—the law—do against that? We are but poor wretches, and were we to accuse this rich, powerful, and respected man, we should be laughed to scorn. Ha! ha! ha!" and he laughed convulsively, "and they would be right. Where would be our proofs?—yes, our proofs? No one would believe us. So, I tell you—I tell you," he added, with increased fury, "I tell you that I have no confidence but in the impartiality of my knife."
"Silence, Morel! your grief distracts you," said Rodolph to him sorrowfully; "let your daughter speak; the moments are precious; the magistrate waits; I must know all,—all, I tell you; go on, my child."