She was dead! Cold and want had hastened her end, although her
complaint, brought on by the want of common necessaries, was beyond
cure. Her poor little limbs were already cold and stiff. Morel, his
gray hair almost standing on end with despair and fright, remained
motionless, holding his dead child in his arms, whom he contemplated
with fixed, tearless eyes, bloodshot with agony.

"Morel! Morel! give my Adele to me!" shrieked the unhappy mother,
holding out her arms toward her husband; "it is not true that she is
dead: you shall see--I will warm her in my arms!"

The idiot's curiosity was excited by the haste with which the two
bailiffs approached the lapidary, who would not part with the body of
his infant. The old woman ceased to howl, rose from her bed, slowly
approached Morel, and passing her hideous and stupid face over his
shoulder, gazed vacantly on the corpse of her grandchild. The features
of the idiot retained their usual expression of ferocity. After a
little time, she uttered a sort of hoarse, hollow groan, like a hungry
beast, and returning to her bed, she threw herself upon it, crying
out, "I am hungry! I am hungry!"

"You see, gentlemen, this poor little girl, just four years old--
Adele; yes, she was named Adele. Only last night, she fondly returned
my caresses--and now--look at her! You will, perhaps, say that I have
one less to feed, and that I ought not to murmur," said the artisan,
with a haggard look.

The poor man's reason began to totter under so many repeated shocks.

"Morel, I want my child; I will have her!" said Madeleine.