e was about to hear.

"But who can tell," pursued the wretched man, "where or how she
died? Oh, my Laurence, was there no one to hear your last agony
and save you? What has become of you, so young and happy?"

He rose, shaking with anguish and cried:

"Let us go, Plantat, and look for her at the Morgue." Then he fell
back again, muttering the lugubrious word, "the Morgue."

The witnesses of this scene remained, mute, motionless, rigid,
holding their breath. The stifled sobs and groans of Mme. Courtois
and the little maid alone broke the silence.

"You know that I am your friend--your best friend," said M. Plantat,
softly; "confide in me--tell me all."

"Well," commenced M. Courtois, "know"--but his tears choked his
utterance, and he could not go on. Holding out a crumpled letter,
wet with tears, he stammered:

"Here, read--it is her last letter."

M. Plantat approached the table, and, not without difficulty, read:

"DEARLY BELOVED PARENTS--

"Forgive, forgive, I beseech you, your unhappy
daughter, the distress she is about to cause you. Alas!
I have been very guilty, but the punishment is terrible!
In a day of wandering, I forgot all--the example and
advice of my dear, sainted mother, my most sacred
duty, and your tenderness. I could not, no, I could not
resist him who wept before me in swearing for me an
eternal love--and who has abandoned me. Now, all
is over; I am lost, lost. I cannot long conceal my
dreadful sin. Oh, dear parents, do not curse me. I
am your daughter--I cannot bear to face contempt, I
will not survive my dishonor.

"When this letter reaches you, I shall have ceased to
live; I shall have quitted my aunt's, and shall have
gone far away, where no one will find me. There I
shall end my misery and despair. Adieu, then, oh,
beloved parents, adieu! I would that I could, for the
last time, beg your forgiveness on my knees. My dear
mother, my good father, have pity on a poor wanderer;
pardon me, forgive me. Never let my sister Lucile
know. Once more, adieu--I have courage--honor
commands! For you is the last prayer and supreme
thought of your poor LAURENCE."

Great tears rolled silently down the old man's cheeks as he
deciphered this sad letter. A cold, mute, terrible anger shrivelled
the muscles of his face. When he had finished, he said, in a hoarse
voice:

"Wretch!"

M. Courtois heard this exclamation.

"Ah, yes, wretch i