"Adhemar was the insulted party; he fired first, but did not hit me; whereas I--poor, poor fellow! shot through the breast, he had barely time to say:

"'I was not your rival; I have never made love to that woman in whose house you found me. I love devotedly a young girl who has made me a father. She is poor; my relations are opposed to the connection; but before long I should have been able to marry my love. What will become of my poor little girl and her mother without me?--Go to them and take care of them.'

"'Their name, their address?' I cried; 'on my honor I swear to take your place with them.'

"Alas! poor Adhemar tried to speak, but he had not the strength; he died without naming the woman whom he adored. I looked through his wallet, hoping to find the name and address there. Nothing--no paper, no sc.r.a.p of information to put me on the track of those unfortunate creatures from whom I had taken their only support. I rushed away from the spot, beside myself with grief, like a madman. I had seen people coming; I was afraid of being arrested; for I said to myself: 'If they deprive me of my liberty, how shall I find this woman whom I have deprived of her husband, this child whom I have deprived of her father?'"

"That child is here, monsieur, very near you--in this house."

"Mon Dieu! what do you say, madame?"

"I say that Agathe is the daughter of Comte Adhemar de Hautmont!"

"Is it possible? are you not mistaken?"

"No, monsieur, and you shall have proofs of it--letters from the count which her poor mother possessed and kept religiously; they were all she had of his."

"Agathe, Adhemar's daughter! I have found her at last! O my G.o.d! hast Thou forgiven me?--But her mother?"

"Julia Montoni, Agathe's mother, is no longer living. Poor woman! she died five years after the disappearance of the man she adored, and whom she never ceased to expect, for no one knew how the count had died. And when she went to his hotel to inquire what had become of him, they could give her no information. She caused inquiries to be made of his family, but obtained no reply; and when she was on her deathbed, when she commended her daughter to my care, poor Julia still hoped that Agathe's father would be restored to her some day."

"Ah! madame, from this day half of my fortune belongs to her. But do you think that she will forgive me for having deprived her of her father?"

"Your long repentance, your remorse for the duel, the seclusion and isolation to which you condemned yourself--all these surely ent.i.tle you to forgiveness."

"Yes; after fruitless endeavors to find the two persons whom the count had so earnestly recommended to me, I returned to this region, to the stage upon which those events took place. The woman who was the cause of everything had left her Couberon estate long before. I found, in the ravine, the modest memorial of the unfortunate Adhemar; an estate near by was for sale; I bought it and went into retirement there. Far from the world which I hated, and near the last resting-place of the victim of my blind jealousy, I was enabled to visit the ravine every day, to visit the spot where that fatal duel took place, and to weep by the cross which has been set up where Adhemar lies.--Ah! if his daughter had seen me there, she would forgive me!"

"She has seen you there; that evening, after the storm, Agathe and I heard you praying by the cross."

"Is it possible?"

"Yes; and Agathe herself said: 'That gentleman cannot be guilty; he regrets too sincerely the person who lies there.'"

"Dear child! poor girl!--But that is not all, madame. Still hoping that I might sooner or later find the count's natural daughter, I went to his family. There I asked if anyone knew the name of the young woman whom Adhemar loved. His people did not know, or at all events they would give me no information. But one old uncle, who was more kind-hearted and indulgent than the rest, said to me: 'They are concealing from me too the name of the young woman whom my nephew wanted to marry. But if you ever succeed in finding her, tell her that her daughter, Adhemar's daughter, shall have the whole of my fortune; that I will leave everything I possess to her.'

"That old man is still alive, I know. And Agathe, you say, has letters from Adhemar to her mother. Those letters will suffice to prove that she is his daughter, and to give her the fortune that is destined for her; for I am certain that this uncle, by recognizing her as his niece, will give her the right to bear her father's name."

"Mon Dieu! this seems like a dream. My poor Agathe rich and happy!

Suppose I wake her?"

"No, no! Let me prepare myself to see her. If you knew all that I feel!

Ah! madame, you have made me very happy; and yet I tremble--it seems to me that I shall not dare to face this girl whom I have wronged so terribly!"

"Calm yourself, monsieur; your duel was the result of a mistake, of an act of perfidy; the sole culprit was that woman who so ill requited your love for her."

"But I am no longer surprised by this dog's affection for Agathe. As I have told you, he always showed the greatest friendliness for her father. On that fatal day, when I went to Couberon, I left Ami at Paris.

When he saw me again after the duel, instead of coming to meet me as he usually did, he retreated, making a plaintive sort of groaning noise; one would have said that he meant to reproach me for what I had done. It took a long time to recover his affection, and he never fawned upon me again until he had seen me weeping over Adhemar's grave."

"Good dog! See, he is looking at us and listening to us; one would think that he knows what we are talking about.--Dear Agathe! so I shall see her happy at last! she will be able to marry him she loves! You will oppose no obstacles to her marrying Edmond Didier, will you?"

"I, madame, oppose obstacles to her happiness, when it is my duty, on the contrary, to do everything to ensure it! Is it not my duty?--Whether her father's uncle leaves her his fortune or not, I have thirty thousand francs a year, and I will give half of it to Mademoiselle Agathe on her wedding day."

"Oh! that is too much, monsieur! you mustn't do so much for the young couple.--How delighted poor Edmond will be."

"How does it happen that he is not here to-night?"

"He could not refuse to attend a grand fete given to-night by some people who have been living here a short time. His friend Freluchon and he are old acquaintances of Monsieur and Madame de Belleville."

"Monsieur Edmond at Madame de Belleville's?"

"Yes.--That lady's name seems to excite you strangely. Do you know her?"

"Do I know her! Why, this pretended Madame de Belleville is no other than Thelenie--the woman whose treachery caused Comte Adhemar's death."

"What do you tell me? Can it be true?"

"Yes. Only to-day, this morning, did I learn it. I had just returned from Paris when a woman on horseback appeared at my house, made a great outcry in my courtyard, and demanded to speak to me, in order to complain of my dog, which had presumed to jump at her and her horse.

Fancy my amazement on recognizing in that person the woman who no longer inspires me with any other sentiments than horror and disgust! Ah! I believe that, when she recognized me, she was very sorry that she had come to the Tower.--But I am sorry that Edmond has gone to Thelenie's house; I am sorry that he knows her; for if there has ever been a liaison between them, and she knows that he is in love now with the lovely Agathe, we must expect anything from that creature; she is capable of anything, if her self-esteem is humbled."

"Mon Dieu! you make me shudder! Your words remind me of the strange way in which she stared at Agathe, and of Agathe's melancholy mood to-night!--But what could that woman do to Edmond?"

"I trust that our apprehensions are without foundation; however, to-morrow Monsieur Edmond shall know this Thelenie as she is, and I am quite sure that he will never darken her doors again.--Mon Dieu! it is very late, and I am keeping you from retiring."

"Do you think that I regret seeing you this evening?"

"No, you are so good--you are so attached to your young companion!"

"You give me permission, do you not, to tell her to-morrow all that you have revealed to me to-night?"

"Yes, let her know all; and to-morrow, when I come, you will tell me, before I enter the presence of Comte Adhemar's daughter, whether she is willing to receive me and give me her hand."

"I have already told you that Agathe saw you on your knees by the cross in the ravine; that sight has remained engraved on her memory, she has often mentioned it to me; that fact is enough to a.s.sure you that you will be forgiven.--Mon Dieu! it is twelve o'clock, and you have to return to the Tower alone!"

"Alone! no, isn't Ami with me? He would be a valiant defender; but this neighborhood is not dangerous, there are no evildoers hereabout."

"You will come to-morrow--during the day?"

"Oh! I shall not fail; I long to see her."

"Of course, you will not fail to come," murmured Honorine with a faint sigh; "for it is for Agathe!"

The young woman uttered these last words in a trembling voice. Paul suddenly seized her hand, covered it with kisses, pressed it to his heart, and then hurried away, unable to speak.

But what words could have been more eloquent than his acts? Honorine understood their significance, for her face lighted up with pleasure, and she whispered to herself as she went up to her room:

"Ah! I am very happy too!"