er own surgeon, Gaude,
a certain Sarraille, who had a dingy den of a clinic in the Passage
Tivoli.

It was a bright day in August, and Mathieu, who had come to Paris to
make some purchases at the Beauchene works, was lunching alone with
Morange at the latter's flat, when Seraphine arrived there breathless
and in consternation. Reine, she said, had been taken ill in the
country, and she had brought her back to Paris to her own flat. But it
was not thither; it was to Sarraille's den that she drove Morange and
Mathieu. And there the frightful scene which had been enacted at La
Rouche's at the time of Valerie's death was repeated. Reine, too, was
dead--dead like her mother! And Morange, in a first outburst of fury
threatened both Seraphine and Sarraille with the scaffold. For half an
hour there was no mastering him, but all at once he broke down. To lose
his daughter as he had lost his wife, it was too appalling; the blow
was too great; he had strength left only to weep. Sarraille, moreover,
defended himself; he swore that he had known nothing of the truth, that
the deceased had simply come to him for legitimate treatment, and that
both she and the Baroness had deceived him. Then Seraphine on her side
took hold of Morange's hands, protesting her devotion, her frightful
grief, her fear, too, lest the reputation of the poor dear girl should
be dragged through the mire, if he (the father) did not keep the
terrible secret. She accepted her share of responsibility and blame,
admitted that she had been very culpable, and spoke of eternal remorse.
But might the terrible truth be buried in the dead girl's grave, might
there be none but pure flowers strewn upon that grave, might she who lay
therein be regretted by all who had known her, as one snatched away in
all innocence of youth and beauty!

And Morange yielded to his weakness of heart, stifling the while with
sobs, and scarce repeating that word "Murderers!" which had sprung from
his lips so impulsively a little while before. He thought, too, of
the scandal, an autopsy, a court of law, the newspapers recounting the
crime, his daughter's memory covered with mire, and--No! no! he could
have none of that. Whatever Seraphine might be, she had spoken rightly.

Then his powerlessness to avenge his daughter completed his prostration.
It was as if he had been beaten almost to the point of death; every
one of his limbs was bruised, his head seemed empty, his heart cold
and scarce abl