"Oh, Laurence, my beloved, why did you not confide in me? You
feared my anger, as if a father would ever cease to love his child.
Lost, degraded, fallen to the ranks of the vilest, I would still
love thee. Were you not my own? Alas! you knew not a father's
heart. A father does not pardon; he forgets. You might still have
been happy, my lost love."
He wept; a thousand memories of the time when Laurence was a child
and played about his knees recurred to his mind; it seemed as though
it were but yesterday.
"Oh, my daughter, was it that you feared the world--the wicked,
hypocritical world? But we should have gone away. I should have
left Orcival, resigned my office. We should have settled down far
away, in the remotest corner of France, in Germany, in Italy. With
money all is possible. All? No! I have millions, and yet my
daughter has killed herself."
He concealed his face in his hands; his sobs choked him.
"And not to know what has become of her!" he continued. "Is it not
frightful? What death did she choose? You remember, Doctor, and
you, Plantat, her beautiful curls about her pure forehead, her great,
trembling eyes, her long curved lashes? Her smile--do you know, it
was the sun's ray of my life.
Pages:
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150