to this circumstance.

There was then no chance of finding Cecily, whose absence was the more
disastrous, as she carried with her the positive proof of his crimes. As
this fearful certainty came over him, he fell, struck with
consternation, on a bench placed against his door, where he long
remained, mute, motionless, and as though petrified with horror. His
eyes fixed and haggard, his teeth clenched, and his lips covered with
foam, tearing his breast, as though unconsciously, till the blood
streamed from it, he felt his very brain dizzy with thought, till his
ideas were lost in a fathomless abyss.

When he recovered from his stupor he arose and staggered onwards with an
unsteady and faltering step, like a person just aroused from a state of
complete intoxication. He violently shut the entrance door and returned
to the courtyard. The rain had by this time ceased, but the wind still
continued strong and gusty, and drove rapidly along the heavy gray
clouds which veiled without entirely excluding the brightness of the
moon, whose pale and sickly light shone on the house.

Somewhat calmed by the clear freshness of the night air, Jacques
Ferrand, as though hoping to find relief from his internal agitation by
the rapidity of his movements, plunged into the muddy paths of his
garden, walking with quick, hurried steps, and from time to time
pressing his clenched hands against his forehead. Heedless of the
direction he proceeded in, he at length reached the termination of a
walk, adjoining to which was a dilapidated greenhouse.

Suddenly he stumbled heavily against a mass of newly disturbed earth.
Mechanically he stooped down to examine the nature of the impediment
which presented itself; the deep hole which had been dug, and morsels of
torn garments lying by, told him with awful certainty that he stood by
the grave dug by poor Louise Morel to receive the remains of her dead
infant,--her infant, which was also the child of the heartless, hardened
wretch who now stood trembling and conscience-stricken beside this
fearful memento of his sensuality and brutal persecution of a poor and
helpless girl. And spite of his hardihood, his long course of sin and
seared conscience, a deadly tremor shook his frame, he felt an
instinctive persuasion that the hour of deep retribution was at hand.

Under other circumstances Jacques Ferrand would have trampled the humble
grave beneath his feet without remorse or concern, but now, exhausted by