LITMIR.BIZ

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but, strange to say, I, who with a word can cause you pleasure greater than you have ever experienced, I experience, although the minutes of my life are counted, I experience an indefinable satisfaction at prolonging your expectation. And then, I know your heart; and in spite of the fierceness of your character, I fear, without preparation, to reveal to you so incredible a discovery. The emotions of overwhelming joy have also their dangers."

      "Your paleness increases, you can scarcely repress your violent agitation," said Rodolph; "all this indicates something grave and solemn."

      "Grave and solemn!" replied Sarah, in an agitated voice; for, in spite of her habitual impassiveness, when she reflected on the immense effect of the disclosure she was about to make to Rodolph, she was more troubled than she believed possible; and, unable any longer to restrain herself, she exclaimed, "Rodolph, our daughter lives!"

      "Our daughter!"

      "Lives, I say!"

      These words, the accents of truth in which they were pronounced, shook the prince to his very heart. "Our child!" he repeated, going hurriedly to the chair in which Sarah was, "our child – my daughter!"

      "Is not dead, I have irresistible proof; I know where she is; to-morrow you shall see her."

      "My daughter! My daughter!" repeated Rodolph, with amazement. "Can it be that she lives?" Then, suddenly reflecting on the improbability of such an event, and fearing to be the dupe of some fresh treachery on Sarah's part, he cried, "No, no, it is a dream! Impossible! I know your ambition – of what you are capable – and I see through the drift of this proposed treachery!"

      "Yes, you say truly; I am capable of all – everything! Yes, I desired to abuse you; some days before the mortal blow was struck, I sought to find out some young girl that I might present to you as our daughter. After this confession, you will perhaps believe me, or, rather, you will be compelled to credit irresistible evidence. Yes, Rodolph, I repeat I desired to substitute a young and obscure girl for her whom we both deplore; but God willed that at the moment when I was arranging this sacrilegious bargain, I should be almost fatally stabbed!"

      "You – at this moment!"

      "God so willed it that they should propose to me to play the part of falsehood – imagine whom? Our daughter!"

      "Are you delirious, in heaven's name?"

      "Oh, no, I am not delirious! In this casket, containing some papers and a portrait, which will prove to you the truth of what I say, you will find a paper stained with my blood!"

      "Your blood!"

      "The woman who told me that our daughter was still living declared to me this disclosure when she stabbed me with her dagger."

      "And who was she? How did she know?"

      "It was she to whom the child was confided when very young, after she had been declared dead."

      "But this woman? Can she be believed? How did you know her?"

      "I tell you, Rodolph, that this is all fated – providential! Some months ago you snatched a young girl from misery, to send her to the country. Jealousy and hatred possessed me. I had her carried off by the woman of whom I have been speaking."

      "And they took the poor girl to St. Lazare?"

      "Where she is still."

      "She is there no longer. Ah, you do not know, madame, the fearful evil you have occasioned me by snatching the unfortunate girl away from the retreat in which I had placed her; but – "

      "The young girl is no longer at St. Lazare!" cried Sarah, with dismay; "ah, what fearful news is this!"

      "A monster of avarice had an interest in her destruction. They have drowned her, madame! But answer! You say that – "

      "My daughter!" exclaimed Sarah, interrupting Rodolph, and standing erect, as straight and motionless as a statue of marble.

      "What does she say? Good heaven!" cried Rodolph.

      "My daughter!" repeated Sarah, whose features became livid and frightful in their despair. "They have murdered my daughter!"

      "The Goualeuse your daughter!" uttered Rodolph, retreating with horror.

      "The Goualeuse! Yes, that was the name which the woman they call the Chouette used. Dead – dead!" repeated Sarah, still motionless, with her eyes fixed. "They have killed her!"

      "Sarah!" said Rodolph, as pale and as fearful to look upon as the countess; "be calm, – recover yourself, – answer me! The Goualeuse, – the young girl whom you had carried off by the Chouette from Bouqueval, – was she our daughter?"

      "Yes. And they have killed her!"

      "Oh, no, no; you are mad! It cannot be! You do not know! No, no; you cannot tell how fearful this would be! Sarah, be firm, – speak to me calmly, – sit down, – compose yourself! There are often resemblances, appearances which deceive if we are inclined to believe what we desire. I do not reproach you; but explain yourself to me, tell me all the reasons which induced you to think this; for it cannot be, – no, no, it cannot be, – it is not so!"

      After a moment's pause, the countess collected her thoughts, and said to Rodolph, in a faltering voice, "Learning your marriage, and thinking of marrying myself, I could not keep our child with me; she was then four years of age."

      "But at that time I begged her of you with prayers, entreaties," cried Rodolph, in a heartrending tone, "and my letters were unanswered; the only one you wrote to me announced her death!"

      "I was desirous of avenging myself of your contempt by refusing your child. It was shameful; but hear me! I feel my life ebbs from me; this last blow has overcome me!"

      "No, no, I do not believe you; I will not believe you! The Goualeuse my daughter! Oh, mon Dieu! You would not have this so!"

      "Listen to me! When she was four years old, my brother charged Madame Séraphin, the widow of an old servant, to bring the child up until she was old enough to go to school. The sum destined to support our child was deposited by my brother with a notary, celebrated for his honesty. The letters of this man and Madame Séraphin, addressed at the time to me and my brother, are there, in the casket. At the end of a year they wrote me word that my daughter's health was failing, – eight months afterwards that she was dead, and they sent the register of her decease. At this time Madame Séraphin had entered the service of Jacques Ferrand, after having given our daughter over to the Chouette, through the medium of a wretch who is now at the galleys at Rochefort. I was writing down all this when the Chouette stabbed me. This paper is there also, with a portrait of our daughter when four years of age. Examine all, – letters, declaration, portrait, – and you who have seen her, the unhappy child, will judge – "

      These words exhausted Sarah, and she fell fainting into her armchair.

      Rodolph was thunderstruck at this disclosure. There are misfortunes so unforeseen, so horrible, that we try not to believe them until the overwhelming evidence compels us. Rodolph, persuaded of the death of Fleur-de-Marie, had but one hope, – that of convincing himself that she was not his daughter. With a frightful calmness that alarmed Sarah, he approached the table, opened the casket, and began to read the letters, examining with scrupulous attention the papers which accompanied them.

      These letters, bearing the postmark, and dated, written to Sarah and her brother by the notary and Madame Séraphin, related to the infancy of Fleur-de-Marie, and the investment of the money destined for her. Rodolph could not doubt the authenticity of this correspondence.

      The Chouette's declaration was confirmed by the particulars collected at Rodolph's desire, in which a felon named Pierre Tournemine, then at Rochefort, was described as the individual who had received Fleur-de-Marie from the hands of Madame Séraphin, for the purpose of giving her up to the Chouette, – the relentless tormentor of her early years, – and whom she afterwards so unexpectedly recognised when in company with Rodolph at the tapis-franc of the ogress.

      The attestation of the child's death was duly drawn up and attested, but Ferrand himself had confessed to Cecily that it had merely been employed to obtain possession of a considerable sum of money due to the unfortunate

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