When the end came, and Reine found herself in dire trouble because of a high State functionary, a married man, a friend of Seraphine’s—­both women quite lost their heads.  Such a blow might kill Morange.  Everything must be hidden from him; but how?  Thereupon Seraphine devised a plan.  She obtained permission for Reine to accompany her on a visit into the country; but while the fond father imagined that his daughter was enjoying herself among society folk at a chateau in the Loiret, she was really hiding in Paris.  It was indeed a repetition of her mother’s tragic story, with this difference—­that Seraphine addressed herself to no vulgar Madame Rouche, but to an assistant of her own surgeon, Gaude, a certain Sarraille, who had a dingy den of a clinic in the Passage Tivoli.

It was a bright day in August, and Mathieu, who had come to Paris to make some purchases at the Beauchene works, was lunching alone with Morange at the latter’s flat, when Seraphine arrived there breathless and in consternation.  Reine, she said, had been taken ill in the country, and she had brought her back to Paris to her own flat.  But it was not thither; it was to Sarraille’s den that she drove Morange and Mathieu.  And there the frightful scene which had been enacted at La Rouche’s at the time of Valerie’s death was repeated.  Reine, too, was dead—­dead like her mother!  And Morange, in a first outburst of fury threatened both Seraphine and Sarraille with the scaffold.  For half an hour there was no mastering him, but all at once he broke down.  To lose his daughter as he had lost his wife, it was too appalling; the blow was too great; he had strength left only to weep.  Sarraille, moreover, defended himself; he swore that he had known nothing of the truth, that the deceased had simply come to him for legitimate treatment, and that both she and the Baroness had deceived him.  Then Seraphine on her side took hold of Morange’s hands, protesting her devotion, her frightful grief, her fear, too, lest the reputation of the poor dear girl should be dragged through the mire, if he (the father) did not keep the terrible secret.  She accepted her share of responsibility and blame, admitted that she had been very culpable, and spoke of eternal remorse.  But might the terrible truth be buried in the dead girl’s grave, might there be none but pure flowers strewn upon that grave, might she who lay therein be regretted by all who had known her, as one snatched away in all innocence of youth and beauty!

And Morange yielded to his weakness of heart, stifling the while with sobs, and scarce repeating that word “Murderers!” which had sprung from his lips so impulsively a little while before.  He thought, too, of the scandal, an autopsy, a court of law, the newspapers recounting the crime, his daughter’s memory covered with mire, and—­No! no! he could have none of that.  Whatever Seraphine might be, she had spoken rightly.

Then his powerlessness to avenge his daughter completed his prostration.  It was as if he had been beaten almost to the point of death; every one of his limbs was bruised, his head seemed empty, his heart cold and scarce able to beat.  And he sank into a sort of second childhood, clasping his hands and stammering plaintively, terrified, and beseeching compassion, like one whose sufferings are too hard to bear.