The French, especially the lower classes, have this merit, that they pass readily from one sensation to another; after witnessing an execution, they will stop in front of a Punch and Judy show; they laugh and weep with amazing rapidity; and the same man who has just pushed his neighbor roughly aside because he prevented him from seeing a criminal led to the gallows, will eagerly raise and succor the unfortunate mortal whom destitution or some accident causes to fall at his feet.

The gossips and the young girls who crowded Place du Palais forgot the pleasant spectacle they had come to see, and turned their attention to the young woman who lay unconscious on the ground.

Adeline and her child were carried to the nearest cafÉ, and there everything that could be done was done for the poor mother. Everybody formed his or her own conjectures concerning the incident.

“Perhaps it was the crowd, or the heat, which was too much for this pretty young lady,” said some. Others thought with more reason that the stranger’s trouble seemed to be too serious to have been caused by so simple a matter.

“Perhaps,” they said, “she saw among those poor devils someone she once knew and loved.”

While they all tried to guess the cause of the accident, little Ermance uttered piercing shrieks, and although she was too young to appreciate her misfortune, she wept bitterly none the less because her mother did not kiss her.

They succeeded at last in restoring the young woman to consciousness. The unhappy creature! Did they do her a service thereby? Everybody waited with curiosity to see what she would say; but Adeline gazed about her with expressionless eyes; then, taking her daughter in her arms, as if she wished to protect her from some peril, she started to leave the cafÉ without uttering a word.

This extraordinary behavior surprised all those who were present.

“Why do you go away so soon, madame?” said one kindhearted old woman, taking Adeline’s arm; “you must rest a little longer, and recover your wits entirely.”

“Oh! I must go, I must go and join him,” Adeline replied, looking toward the street; “he is there waiting for me; he motioned for me to rescue him from that place, to take off those chains. I can still hear his voice; yes, he is calling me. Listen, don’t you hear? He is groaning—ah! that heartrending cry! Poor fellow! How they are hurting him!”

Adeline fell motionless on a chair; her eyes turned away in horror from a spectacle which she seemed to have constantly in her mind. All those who stood about her shed tears; they saw that she had lost her reason; one and all pitied the unfortunate creature and tried to restore peace to her mind; but to no purpose did they offer her such comfort as they could; Adeline did not hear them, she recognized no one but her daughter, and persisted in her purpose to fly with her.

What were they to do? How could they find out who the family or the kindred of the poor woman were? Her dress did not indicate wealth; the bundle of clothes, containing in addition to her garments the jewels that she had taken away, was not found by Adeline’s side when they picked her up; doubtless some spectator, observing in anticipation the place that he was likely to occupy some day, had found a way to abstract Adeline’s property. So she seemed to be without means, and as with many people, emotion is always sterile, they were already talking of taking the poor woman to a refuge, and her child to the Foundling Hospital, when the arrival of a new personage suspended their plans.

An old man entered the cafÉ and enquired the cause of the gathering. Everyone tried to tell him the story. The stranger walked in, forcing his way through the curious crowd of spectators who surrounded the unfortunate young woman; he approached Adeline, and uttered a cry of surprise when he recognized the person with whom he had travelled from Villeneuve-Saint-Georges to Paris.

“It is really she!” he cried; and little Ermance held out her arms to him with a smile; for she recognized the man who had given her bonbons but a few hours before.

Thereupon the old man became an interesting character to the crowd, who were most eager to learn the poor mother’s story. They all plied the old gentleman with questions, and he, annoyed and wearied by their importunities, sent for a carriage, and after learning from the keeper of the cafÉ exactly what had happened to the young stranger, he put Adeline and her child into the cab, and thus removed them from the scrutiny of the curiosity seekers.

Adeline had fallen into a state of listless prostration. She allowed herself to be taken away, without uttering a word; she seemed to pay no heed to what was taking place about her, and even her daughter no longer engaged her attention.

Monsieur Gerval—such was the old man’s name—gazed at the young woman with deep emotion; he could not as yet believe that she whom he had seen in the morning, sad, it is true, but in the full enjoyment of her senses, could so soon be deprived of her reason. He lost himself in conjectures as to the cause of that strange occurrence.

The cab stopped in front of a handsome, furnished lodging house. It was where Monsieur Gerval stopped when he was in Paris. He was well known in the house, and everyone treated him with the regard which his years and his character deserved.

He caused Adeline and her daughter to alight and took them to his hostess.

“Look you, madame,” he said, “here is a stranger whom I beg you to take care of until further orders.”

“Ah! mon Dieu! how pretty she is! But what a melancholy expression! what an air of depression!—Can’t she speak, Monsieur Gerval?”

“She is ill; she has undergone some great misfortune; they say even that her mind——”

“Merciful heaven! what a pity!”

“I hope that with the best care, we shall succeed in calming her excitement. I commend this unfortunate woman and her child to you.”

“Never fear, Monsieur Gerval, she shall have everything she needs.—Another unfortunate of whom you have taken charge, I see.”

“What would you have, my dear hostess; a man must needs make himself useful when he can. I have no children, and I am growing old; what good would all my wealth do me, if I did not assist the unfortunate? Moreover, it is a source of enjoyment to myself. I am like Florian’s man: ‘I often do good for the pleasure of it.’”

“Ah! if all the rich men thought as you do, Monsieur Gerval!”

“Tell me, madame, has my old DuprÉ come in?”

“Yes, monsieur, he is waiting for you in your room.”

“I will go up to him. Look after this young woman, I beg you, and see that she lacks nothing.”

“Rely upon me, monsieur.”

Worthy Monsieur Gerval went up to his apartment, where he found his old servant DuprÉ impatiently awaiting his master’s return.

“Ah! here you are, monsieur; I was anxious because you stayed away so long. Have you had a pleasant journey? Have you learned anything?”

“No, my friend; the house where the Murville family used to live is now for sale. I was told that one Edouard Murville lived there for some time with his wife, but no one knows what has become of them. And you, DuprÉ?”

“I have found out nothing more, monsieur. Your old friends are dead; and their children are nobody knows where. Several people did mention a Murville, who was a business agent, then a swindler, and all-in-all a thoroughly bad fellow. But no one was able or willing to tell me what has become of him. Perhaps he may have been the younger of the two sons, the one who ran away from his father’s house at fifteen; such an escapade as that promises nothing good for the future.”

“I should be very sorry if it were so; I would have liked—but I see that I have returned too late. My travels kept me away from Paris ten years, and it was only within a year that, on retiring from business, I was able to return to this city. But what changes ten years have produced! My friends—to be sure they were quite old when I went away—my friends are dead or else they have disappeared. That depresses me, DuprÉ; there is nothing left for me in this city but memories. I think we will leave it, and go back to my little place in the Vosges to live; I propose to end my life there.—But let us drop this subject; I have something to tell you, for my journey has not been altogether without fruit; it has made me acquainted with a very interesting young woman, who seems most unfortunate too.”

“Indeed! Where did monsieur meet her?”

“We returned to Paris in the same carriage; for notwithstanding your advice, I made the trip in one of those miserable cabriolets.”

“Oh! the idea of subjecting yourself to such a jolting! That is unreasonable!”

“Nonsense! nonsense! I’m perfectly well, and I congratulate myself that I did not take your advice, as I travelled with a poor woman, whom I found afterward by chance in a most melancholy plight.”

Monsieur Gerval told the servant what had happened to him, and the chance which had led to his finding the traveller again in a cafÉ, just as those present were talking of taking her to a refuge. DuprÉ, whose heart was as soft as his master’s, was very impatient to see the young woman and her pretty little girl; he followed his master, who asked to be taken to the room which had been given to Adeline.

Edouard’s wife was pacing the floor excitedly, while little Ermance was lying in an armchair. The entrance of Monsieur Gerval and DuprÉ caused Adeline a moment’s terror; she ran to her daughter and seemed to be afraid that it was their intention to take her away from her.

“Don’t be alarmed, madame,” said the old man gently, as he approached her; “it is a friend who has come to comfort you. Tell me your troubles; I shall be able to lighten them, I hope.”

“What a crowd there is about me!” said Adeline, glancing wildly about; “what a multitude of people! Why this gathering? Ah! I will not, no, I will not stop on this square. They have come here to gaze on those poor wretches. Let me go! But I cannot; the cruel crowd forces me back. Ah! I must close my eyes, and not look! He is there, close to me!”

She fell upon a chair and put her hands before her face.

“Poor woman!” said DuprÉ; “some horrible thing must have happened to her. Do you know, monsieur, that it seems to me that this unfortunate creature belongs to a good family? Her clothes are very simple, almost like a peasant’s; but for all that, I will bet that this woman is no peasant.”

“Why, of course not; I can see that as well as you. But how are we to find out who she is? If this child could talk better——”

“The little girl is waking up, monsieur; give her some bonbons and try to make out the name she mentions.”

Gerval went to Ermance and kissed her; the child recognized him and went to him of her own accord. He gave her bonbons, danced her on his knees, and she lisped the name of Jacques; for it was Jacques who played with her and danced with her every evening.

“One would say that she knows you, monsieur,” said DuprÉ to his master; “I believe it is Jacques she says; just listen.”

“Poor child; it is true. Perhaps that is her father’s name. Let us try to find out if that is really the name she is lisping; if it is, her mother knows it without any question.”

The old man walked toward Adeline, uttering the name of Jacques in a loud voice. The young woman instantly arose and repeated the name.

“Good! she understood us,” whispered DuprÉ.

“You are looking for Jacques,” said Adeline to Monsieur Gerval; “oh! in pity’s name, do not tell him this horrible secret; let him always remain ignorant of his shame! Poor Jacques! he would die of grief. Oh! promise me that you will say nothing to him.”

Honest Gerval promised, and DuprÉ sadly shook his head.

“It is of no use,” he said to his master, “there is no hope.—But what is your plan?”

“We must make all possible investigations. You, DuprÉ, will go to Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, and inquire about all the Jacqueses there are in the village; in short, you will try to find out something. If we cannot discover anything then, I will see what——”

“Ah! I am very sure, my dear master, that you won’t abandon this young woman and this poor child.”

“No, DuprÉ, no, I shall not abandon them. But it is late and I am tired. I am going to bed, and to-morrow we will begin our search.”

Having once more commended Adeline and her daughter to the people of the house, honest Gerval retired.

During the night as during the day, Adeline was intensely excited at times, talking incoherently, and sometimes in a state of the most complete prostration, seeming to see nothing of what took place about her. They observed, however, that any noise, the sound of a loud voice, or the faintest cry, made her jump, and threw her into the wildest delirium.

The next day a doctor summoned by Monsieur Gerval came to see the unhappy young woman, but all his skill could accomplish nothing more than to calm her a little; he thought that a tranquil existence would make the alarming outbursts of her mania less frequent. But he gave little hope of the restoration of her reason, as he knew nothing of the cause which had led to its being unseated.

DuprÉ went to Villeneuve-Saint-Georges and inquired concerning all the Jacqueses in the neighborhood. Only two peasants bore that name, and they had no idea what he meant by his questions about the young woman and her daughter. DuprÉ was unable to learn anything, and he returned to his master.

Monsieur Gerval had made no further progress in his investigations in Paris; the newspapers did not mention the disappearance of a young woman and her daughter from their home, and he could obtain no information concerning the name and family of his protÉgÉes.

Ten days passed, and Adeline was still in the same condition. Her prostration was less frequently disturbed by violent outbreaks; but when by chance a cry reached her ear, her delirium became terrible to see, and her condition was horrifying. Only her daughter’s voice never acted unfavorably upon her; that voice always went to the heart of the poor mother, who never mistook her child’s accents.

“My dear DuprÉ,” said Monsieur Gerval to his servant, at the end of those ten days, “I see that we must abandon the hope of ever finding out who this interesting young woman is. I have made up my mind what to do, my friend: I have determined to take these unfortunate creatures with me. As you know, I am going to retire to my estate in the Vosges. That solitary place, surrounded by woods, is best suited to our poor invalid. That is the doctor’s opinion, and we must be guided by it; and at all events nothing will disturb the tranquillity which the poor creature requires. We will look to it that she hears no cries there. We will bring up her daughter; Catherine, who is so fond of children, will look after the poor child, and the innocent darling’s caresses will pay me for what I do for her mother.—Well, what do you think of my plan, DuprÉ?”

“It delights me, monsieur, and I recognize yourself in it. Always kind and always doing good! You give all you have to the unfortunate.”

“That is my pleasure; I have no family, the unfortunate are my children. As you know, I came to Paris with the hope of learning something of a certain little boy whom I loved in his infancy, and who besides is entitled to my protection. But faith, as I can’t find him, this little girl shall take his place. From this moment I adopt her; I take charge of her mother, and I thank Providence for selecting me to be their protector.”

The next day honest Gerval put his plan into execution: he bought a large and commodious berlin, placed in it everything that the young woman and her daughter would need on the journey; and then, having left his address with the landlady, so that she might write to him in case she should learn anything concerning the strangers, the protector of Adeline and Ermance left Paris with them and his old servant, for the country residence where he proposed to end his days in peace.