Go to these unhappy creatures, rescue them from debauchery, and
their honor will be yours."
M. Lecoq narrowly watched Laurence as he spoke, and perceived that
he had touched her. Still, her eyes were dry, and were lit up with
a strange light.
"Besides, your life is not your own--you know."
"Ah," she returned, "I must die now, even for my child, if I would
not die of shame when he asks for his father--"
"You will reply, Madame, by showing him an honest man and an old
friend, who is ready to give him his name--Monsieur Plantat."
The old justice was broken with grief; yet he had the strength to
say:
"Laurence, my beloved child, I beg you accept me--"
These simple words, pronounced with infinite gentleness and
sweetness, at last melted the unhappy young girl, and determined
her. She burst into tears.
She was saved.
M. Lecoq hastened to throw a shawl which he saw on a chair about
her shoulders, and passed her arm through M. Plantat's, saying to
the latter:
"Go, lead her away; my men have orders to let you pass, and Palot
will lend you his carriage."
"But where shall we go?"
"To Orcival; Monsieur Courtois has been informed by a letter from
me that his daughter is living, and he is expecting her.
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