"It is indeed you, Louise, my darling Louise!" said Morel, crying;
"but how pale you are! For mercy's sake what ails you?"

"Nothing, nothing, father," stammered Louise. "I have run so fast.
Here is the money!"

"How is this?"

"You are free!"

"So you know?"

"Yes, yes! Here, sir, take the money," said the young girl, giving a
rouleau of gold to Malicorne.

"But this money, Louise--this money?"

"You shall know all presently; don't be uneasy. Come and comfort dear
mother."

"No, not now!" exclaimed Morel, placing himself before the door,
remembering that Louise was still in ignorance of the death of the
little girl; "wait, I must speak to you. Now, about this money?"

"Stay!" said Malicorne, as he finished counting the gold, and while
putting it in his pocket; "sixty-four, sixty-five--that will just make
thirteen hundred francs. Have you no more than that, my little dear?"

"Why, you only owe thirteen hundred francs?" said Louise, addressing