"Enough, my dear Suzanne," said Sabine, interrupting her. Then, pa.s.sing her hand across her burning brow, she relapsed into a gloomy silence that no one dared to break.

"Segoffin," she said, at last, "you were my grandfather's faithful servant and trusted friend. You watched over my father in childhood; at all times, and under all circ.u.mstances, you have been blindly devoted to him. Is it true that my father, instead of being engaged in business as he said, has been privateering under the name of Captain l'Endurci?"

"Yes, mademoiselle, it is true," Segoffin answered, smothering a sigh.

After another brief silence, Sabine said:

"M. Onesime, I owe it to myself and I owe it to you to inform you of my determination. In happier days there was some talk of a marriage between us, but after what has occurred, after what you know and have just heard, you will not be surprised, I think, to hear me say that this world is no longer any place for me."

"Good Heavens! what do you mean, mademoiselle?" cried Onesime, in dismay.

"I have decided to retire to a convent, where I intend to end my days."

Onesime did not utter a word, but sat with his head bowed upon his breast, while quick, heavy sobs shook his frame.

"No, mademoiselle, no! That is impossible," sobbed Suzanne. "No, surely you will not thus bury yourself alive."

"My mind is made up," answered Sabine, firmly; "but if such a sojourn does not seem too gloomy to you, my dear Suzanne, I should be glad to have you accompany me."

"I shall never leave you. You know that very well, mademoiselle, but you will not do this, you will not--"

"Suzanne, for two days I have been reflecting upon the course I ought to pursue. There is nothing else for me to do, so my resolution is irrevocable."

"And your father, mademoiselle," interposed Segoffin, "before you separate yourself from him for ever you will surely see him once more."

"No."

"Then, from this day on, you are dead to him and he is dead to you."

It was evidently with a violent effort at self-control that Sabine at last replied:

"It will be better for me not to see my father again until we are reunited with my mother."

"Ah, mademoiselle, how can you be so cruel?" murmured Segoffin, despairingly. "If you knew how wretched he is--"

"No, I am not cruel," replied the girl; "at least I do not mean to be. I can only repeat what I said to Suzanne just now. For two days I have been reflecting on the course I ought to pursue, and my decision is irrevocable."

A gloomy silence greeted this announcement. Segoffin was the first to speak.

"You surely will not refuse to hear a letter from M. Cloarek read, mademoiselle," he said, at last. "It is the only request he makes of you, for he foresaw the aversion you would feel for him."

"Aversion!" cried Sabine, like one in mortal agony. Then controlling herself, she added:

"There seems to have been a strange and cruel fatality about all this."

"Yes," answered the old servant, sighing; "but as M. Cloarek is never to see you again, will you not at least listen to the letter I brought to M. Onesime?"

"It is undoubtedly my duty to comply with my father's wishes, so I am ready to listen, M. Onesime."

The young man opened the envelope Segoffin handed him. The letter which Cloarek had written to his daughter was accompanied with the following brief note:

"I implore you to read the enclosed letter to Sabine, my dear Onesime.

It is a last proof of esteem and affection I desire to give you.

"May this truthful account written by a despairing parent, and read by a beloved voice, reach his daughter's heart. Yours affectionately,

"Y. CLOAREK."

After telling Sabine the contents of this note the young man read the following aloud:

"'TO MY DAUGHTER:--Fate seems to decree that I am to be separated from you for ever, my child, for now I know you can no longer bear the sight of me.

"'A strange and unforeseen event has revealed a terrible and jealously guarded secret to you.

"'Yes, that man in the strange costume, whom you have always remembered as your mother's murderer, was I, your father.

"'The privateer whose deeds inspired you with such horror was I.

"'Your mother was _enceinte_. We had a quarrel,--the first in our whole married life, I swear it! I gave way to my temper, and my anger became so terrible that, in your mother's nervous condition, her fright killed her.

"'Mine was a double crime, for the terror that proved fatal to your mother also had a lasting effect upon you, for the unfortunate impression made upon you at that tender age had a most deplorable influence, not only upon your health, but upon your whole life.

"'You know my crime, now let me tell you how I have expiated it.

"'When I saw you motherless, I asked myself what would become of you.

"'The small fortune that your mother and I possessed had been almost entirely lost in consequence of the political agitations of the day and a ruinous lawsuit. I had lost my position as a magistrate in consequence of the scandal which my ebullitions of temper caused.

"'I sold the small amount of property I had left, and realised about six thousand francs from the sale. Suzanne, who had gained your poor mother's affectionate esteem by her virtues and her faithfulness, was devoted to you. I said to her:

"'"Here are five thousand francs; enough, with economy, to supply my daughter's wants and yours for five years. I entrust my child to your care. If you have seen or heard nothing from me at the expiration of these five years, you will send a letter which I will leave with you to the person to whom it is addressed."

"'The person to whom this letter was written was a man of n.o.ble lineage whose life I had saved during the revolution, and who had taken up his abode in Germany; and I felt sure that this man, who was still wealthy, would treat you as an adopted child; but I did not intend you to eat the bitter bread of dependence if I could help it.

"'These arrangements made, I kissed you while you were peacefully sleeping, and departed with one thousand francs as my only dependence.

Segoffin, my tried and trusted friend, insisted upon sharing my fortunes, so he accompanied me.

"'I had devoted the days which immediately preceded my departure to sorrowful meditations upon the future and the past, during which I had questioned, studied, and judged myself with inexorable severity.

"'My misfortunes and my crime toward your mother were due to the impetuosity of my character. Anything that wounded my feelings, anything contradictory to my convictions, anything in the way of opposition to my wishes, made my blood boil and excited me almost to frenzy; and this exuberance and impetuosity vented themselves in fury and violence.

"'In short, my only capital was anger.

"'While thus studying myself I recollected the wonderful mental and physical power with which I seemed to be endowed when I yielded to these transports of rage.

"'Often when I had revolted against certain iniquitous facts or acts of cruel oppression, the very intensity of my anger had given me almost superhuman power to defend the weak and chastise the oppressor. For instance, one day when I found three ruffians attacking a poor defenceless woman, I nearly killed all three of them, though in my normal condition I could not have coped successfully with any one of them single-handed.

"'But alas! my child, on continuing this inexorable study of myself, I was also obliged to admit that I had not always had just cause for my anger, by any means, for not unfrequently the slightest contradiction infuriated me almost to madness. Your poor mother's death was a terrible example of this idiosyncrasy on my part.