The Mysteries of Paris, vol 2 | Page 9

respecting you, as she was desirous of apportioning her benefits according to your deserts."
"Good and excellent lady! I had reason to say--"
"As you observed to Madeleine: 'If the rich knew,' is it not so?"
"How, sir!--you know the name of my wife! Who told you that?"
"Since six o' clock this morning," said Rudolph, interrupting Morel, "I have been concealed in the little loft which adjoins your garret."
"You, sir!"
"Yes, and I have heard all that passed, my honest man."
"Oh, sir! but why were you there?"
"I could employ no better means of getting at your real character and sentiments. I wished to see and hear all, without your knowledge. The porter had spoken to me of this little nook, and offered it to me that I might keep my wood in it. This morning I requested him to permit me to visit it; I remained there an hour, and I feel convinced that there does not exist a character more worthy, noble, and courageously resigned than yours."
"Nay, sir, indeed I cannot see much merit in my conduct; I was born honest, and cannot act otherwise than I have done."
"I know it; and for that reason I do not praise your conduct but appreciate it. I had quitted the loft to release you from the bailiffs when I heard your daughter's voice. I wished to leave her the pleasure of saving you; unhappily the rapacity of the bailiffs prevented poor Louise from enjoying so sweet a delight. I then made my appearance. Fortunately, I yesterday recovered several sums of money that were due to me, and I was able to give an advance to your benefactress by paying for you this unfortunate debt. But your misfortunes are so great, so unmerited, so nobly sustained, that the interest felt for you and deserved, will not stop here. I can, in the name of your preserving angel, assure you of future repose with happiness to you and yours."
"Is it possible? But at least tell me her name, sir--the name of this preserving angel, as you have called her."
"Yes, she is an angel; and you have still reason to say that the great and the lowly have their troubles."
"Is this lady, then, unhappy?"
"Who is there without their sorrows? But I see no cause to withhold her name. This lady is called--"
Remembering that Mrs. Pipelet knew that Lady d'Harville had come to her house to inquire for the Commander, Rudolph, hearing the indiscreet gossiping of the portress, said after a moment's reflection: "I will tell you the name of this lady on one condition--"
"Oh, pray, speak, sir!"
"It is, that you will repeat it to no one. You understand!--to no one."
"Oh, I will solemnly promise that to you. But cannot I at least offer my thanks to this savior of the unhappy?"
"I will ask Lady d'Harville, and I doubt not she will give her consent."
"Then this lady is--"
"The Marchioness d'Harville."
"Oh, I shall never forget that name! It shall be my saint, my adoration! To think that, thanks to her, my wife and children are saved! saved!--no, not all, not all, my poor little Adele, we shall never see her again. Alas! but it is necessary to remember that any day we might have lost her, for she was doomed." Here the poor lapidary brushed the tears from his eyes.
"As regards the last sad duties to be performed for this little one," said Rudolph, "trust to my advice; this is what must be done: I do not yet occupy my room, which is large, wholesome, and well aired. There is already a bed in it; we will convey thither all that is necessary for yourself and family to be established there till Lady d'Harville has arranged where to lodge you suitably. Your child's body will remain in the garret, where it shall to-night, as is customary, be attended and watched by a priest. I will go and request M. Pipelet to undertake the management of these sad duties."
"But, sir, it is not necessary to deprive you of your room. Now that we are in peace, and I no longer fear being taken to prison, our humble apartment appears to me a palace, particularly if my dear Louise remains with us, to attend to the family as formerly."
"Your Louise will not again leave you. You said not long ago it would be a luxury to have her always with you; as some recompense for your past sufferings, she shall never leave you again."
"Oh, sir, can it be possible? It surely cannot be a reality! My senses seem lulled in a sweet dream. I have never thought much of religion, but this sudden change from so much misery to so much happiness shows the hand of an overruling Providence."
"And if a father's grief could be assuaged by promises of reward or recompense,"