e before getting to the cemetery, whose trees you see up yonder, for
it is a stiff pull up this hill."

And he began:

"This young woman, Madame Paul Hamot, was the daughter of a wealthy
merchant in the neighborhood, Monsieur Fontanelle. When she was a mere
child of eleven, she had a terrible adventure; a footman violated her.
She nearly died, in consequence, and the wretch's brutality betrayed
him. A terrible criminal case was the result, and it was proved that for
three months the poor young martyr had been the victim of that brute's
disgraceful practices, and he was sentenced to penal servitude for life.

"The little girl grew up stigmatized by disgrace, isolated without any
companions, and grown-up people would scarcely kiss her, for they
thought that they would soil their lips if they touched her forehead,
and she became a sort of monster, a phenomenon to all the town. People
said to each other in a whisper: 'You know, little Fontanelle,' and
everybody turned away in the streets when she passed. Her parents could
not even get a nurse to take her out for a walk, as the other servants
held aloof from her, as if contact with her would poison everybody who
came near her.

"It was pitiable to see the poor child. She remained quite by herself,
standing by her maid, and looking at the other children amusing
themselves. Sometimes, yielding to an irresistible desire to mix with
the other children, she advanced, timidly, with nervous gestures, and
mingled with a group, with furtive steps, as if conscious of her own
infamy. And, immediately, the mothers, aunts and nurses used to come
running from every seat, who took the children entrusted to their care
by the hand and dragged them brutally away.

"Little Fontanelle remained isolated, wretched, without understanding
what it meant, and then she began to cry, nearly heart-broken with
grief, and then she used to run and hide her head in her nurse's lap,
sobbing.

"As she grew up, it was worse still. They kept the girls from her, as if
she were stricken with the plague. Remember that she had nothing to
learn, nothing; that she no longer had the right to the symbolical
wreath of orange-flowers; that almost before she could read, she had
penetrated that redoubtable mystery, which mothers scarcely allow their
daughters to guess, trembling as they enlighten them, on the night of
their marriage.

"When she went through the streets, always accompanied by her governess,
as if h