“What! is it you, my pet!” he exclaimed.  “No, no, there are no big fishes.  I think that they hide at the bottom because the water is so cold in winter.  Are you going on a visit?  You look quite beautiful in that fur-trimmed cloak!”

The little girl began to laugh, well pleased at being flattered and loved, for her old friend’s voice quivered with adoration.

“Yes, yes, I am very happy; there are to be some private theatricals where I’m going.  Oh! it is amusing to feel happy!”

She spoke those words like his own Reine might formerly have spoken them, and he could have gone down on his knees to kiss her little hands like an idol’s.

“But it is necessary that you should always be happy,” he replied.  “You look so beautiful, I must really kiss you.”

“Oh! you may, Monsieur Morange, I’m quite willing.  Ah! you know the doll you gave me; her name’s Margot, and you have no idea how good she is.  Come to see her some day.”

He had kissed her; and with glowing heart, ready for martyrdom, he watched her as she went off in the pale light of winter.  What he had thought of would be too cowardly:  besides, that child must be happy!

He slowly quitted the bridge, while within him the haunting words rang out with decisive distinctness, demanding a reply:  “Would he allow that fresh crime to be committed without shouting aloud what he knew?” No, no!  It was impossible:  he would speak, he would act.  Nevertheless, his mind remained clouded, befogged.  How could he speak, how could he act?

Then, to crown his extravagant conduct, utterly breaking away from the habits of forty years, he no sooner returned to the office than, instead of immediately plunging into his everlasting additions, he began to write a long letter.  This letter, which was addressed to Mathieu, recounted the whole affair—­Alexandre’s resurrection, Constance’s plans, and the service which he himself had promised to render her.  These things were set down simply as his impulse dictated, like a kind of confession by which he relieved his feelings.  He had not yet come to any positive decision as to how he should play the part of a justiciar, which seemed so heavy to his shoulders.  His one purpose was to warn Mathieu in order that there might be two of them to decide and act.  And he simply finished by asking the other to come to see him on the following evening, though not before six o’clock, as he desired to see Alexandre and learn how the interview passed off, and what Constance might require of the young man.

The ensuing night, the ensuing day, must have been full of abominable torment for Morange.  The doorkeeper’s wife recounted, later on, that the fourth-floor tenant had heard the old gentleman walking about overhead all through the night.  Doors were slammed, and furniture was dragged about as if for a removal.  It was even thought that one could detect cries, sobs, and the monologues of a madman addressing phantoms,