“Do you marvel, Monsieur,” she said, “that I am still sane—­still alive?  But I only live to find my child.  I try and keep my reason in order to fight the devilish cunning of a brute on his own ground.  Up to now all my inquiries have been in vain.  At first I squandered money, tried judicial means, set an army of sleuth-hounds on the track.  I tried bribery, corruption.  I went to the wretch himself and abased myself in the dust before him.  He only laughed at me and told me that his love for me had died long ago; he now was lavishing its treasures upon the faithful friend and companion—­that awful woman, Simonne Evrard—­who had stood by him in the darkest hours of his misfortunes.  Then it was that I decided to adopt different tactics.  Since my child was to be reared in the midst of murderers and thieves, I, too, would haunt their abodes.  I became a street-singer, dancer, what you will.  I wear rags now and solicit alms.  I haunt the most disreputable cabarets in the lowest slums of Paris.  I listen and I spy; I question every man, woman, and child who might afford some clue, give me some indication.  There is hardly a house in these parts that I have not visited and whence I have not been kicked out as an importunate beggar or worse.  Gradually I am narrowing the circle of my investigations.  Presently I shall get a clue.  I shall!  I know I shall!  God cannot allow this monstrous thing to go on!”

Again there was silence.  The poor woman had completely broken down.  Shame, humiliation, passionate grief, had made of her a mere miserable wreckage of humanity.

The man waited awhile until she was composed, then he said simply: 

“You have suffered terribly, Madame; but chiefly, I think, because you have been alone in your grief.  You have brooded over it until it has threatened your reason.  Now, if you will allow me to act as your friend, I will pledge you my word that I will find your son for you.  Will you trust me sufficiently to give up your present methods and place yourself entirely in my hands?  There are more than a dozen gallant gentlemen, who are my friends, and who will help me in my search.  But for this I must have a free hand, and only help from you when I require it.  I can find you lodgings where you will be quite safe under the protection of my wife, who is as like an angel as any man or woman I have ever met on this earth.  When your son is once more in your arms, you will, I hope, accompany us to England, where so many of your friends have already found a refuge.  If this meets with your approval, Madame, you may command me, for with your permission I mean to be your most devoted servant.”

Dante, in his wild imaginations of hell and of purgatory and fleeting glimpses of paradise, never put before us the picture of a soul that was lost and found heaven, after a cycle of despair.  Nor could Madeleine Lannoy ever explain her feelings at that moment, even to herself.  To begin with, she could not quite grasp the reality of this ray of hope, which came to her at the darkest hour of her misery.  She stared at the man before her as she would on an ethereal vision; she fell on her knees and buried her face in her hands.