Help！ help！ fire！ Will they take my child from me like this？ Who is it then who is called the good God？"Then， addressing Tristan， foaming at the mouth， with wild eyes， all bristling and on all fours like a female panther，--"Draw near and take my daughter！ Do not you understand that this woman tells you that she is my daughter？ Do you know what it is to have a child？ Eh！ lynx， have you never lain with your female？ have you never had a cub？ and if you have little ones， when they howl have you nothing in your vitals that moves？""Throw down the stone，" said Tristan； "it no longer holds."The crowbars raised the heavy course. It was， as we have said， the mother's last bulwark.
She threw herself upon it， she tried to hold it back； she scratched the stone with her nails， but the massive block， set in movement by six men， escaped her and glided gently to the ground along the iron levers.
The mother， perceiving an entrance effected， fell down in front of the opening， barricading the breach with her body， beating the pavement with her head， and shrieking with a voice rendered so hoarse by fatigue that it was hardly audible，--"Help！ fire！ fire！"
"Now take the wench，" said Tristan， still impassive.
The mother gazed at the soldiers in such formidable fashion that they were more inclined to retreat than to advance.
"Come， now，" repeated the provost. "Here you， Rennet Cousin！"No one took a step.
The provost swore，--
"~Tête de Christ~！ my men of war！ afraid of a woman！""Monseigneur，" said Rennet， "do you call that a woman？""She has the mane of a lion，" said another.
"Come！" repeated the provost， "the gap is wide enough.
Enter three abreast， as at the breach of Pontoise. Let us make an end of it， death of Mahom！ I will make two pieces of the first man who draws back！"Placed between the provost and the mother， both threatening， the soldiers hesitated for a moment， then took their resolution， and advanced towards the Rat-Hole.
When the recluse saw this， she rose abruptly on her knees， flung aside her hair from her face， then let her thin flayed hands fall by her side. Then great tears fell， one by one， from her eyes； they flowed down her cheeks through a furrow， like a torrent through a bed which it has hollowed for itself.
At the same time she began to speak， but in a voice so supplicating， so gentle， so submissive， so heartrending， that more than one old convict-warder around Tristan who must have devoured human flesh wiped his eyes.
"Messeigneurs！ messieurs the sergeants， one word. There is one thing which I must say to you. She is my daughter， do you see？ my dear little daughter whom I had lost！
Listen. It is quite a history. Consider that I knew the sergeants very well. They were always good to me in the days when the little boys threw stones at me， because I led a life of pleasure. Do you see？ You will leave me my child when you know！ I was a poor woman of the town. It was the Bohemians who stole her from me. And I kept her shoe for fifteen years. Stay， here it is. That was the kind of foot which she had. At Reims！ La Chantefleurie！ Rue Folle-Peine！ Perchance， you knew about that. It was I. In your youth， then， there was a merry time， when one passed good hours. You will take pity on me， will you not， gentlemen？
The gypsies stole her from me； they hid her from me for fifteen years. I thought her dead. Fancy， my good friends， believed her to be dead. I have passed fifteen years here in this cellar， without a fire in winter. It is hard. The poor， dear little shoe！ I have cried so much that the good God has heard me. This night he has given my daughter back to me.
It is a miracle of the good God. She was not dead. You will not take her from me， I am sure. If it were myself， Iwould say nothing； but she， a child of sixteen！ Leave her time to see the sun！ What has she done to you？ nothing at all. Nor have I. If you did but know that she is all Ihave， that I am old， that she is a blessing which the Holy Virgin has sent to me！ And then， you are all so good！
You did not know that she was my daughter； but now you do know it. Oh！ I love her！ Monsieur， the grand provost.
