He stammered a few incoherent words. Then in a measure recovering himself, he said:

"I give you my word that I will take her away in the morning."

"But if she should die in the night! However, I am too kind-hearted for my own good. She may stay here to night. But who will take care of her?"

"I will," answered Sanselme; "but I must beg that you will take her daughter out of the room."

"I can give her a bed in the closet next her mother's room. But you know if it were known, I should get into trouble, because she's a minor."

They returned to the sick room. Zelda seemed calmer. The daughter was crouched upon the floor at the side of the bed. Sanselme spoke to her gently.

"My child," he said, "I will take care of your mother to-night. You are tired, and a room is ready for you."

"No! no!" cried the child. "I cannot stay here to-night, unless I am in my mother's room."

And she looked so horrified that Sanselme was silent. He realized what this young creature must feel at the terrible life led by her mother.

When the girl understood that the room she was to have could be reached only through that occupied by her mother, she said no more, but she seemed to shrink from the very air she breathed.

The unhappy Zelda had fallen into a state of prostration, that rendered her unconscious of all that was going on about her. Her daughter went to her side.

"Do not disturb her," said Sanselme, "she is asleep."

For the first time the girl looked him full in the face. "You are very kind," she said. "You knew my mother then?"

"Oh! no," answered Sanselme, eagerly, "but you are very tired, and some one must stay with her to-night."

He spoke with a certain hesitation, as if he were telling a falsehood.

The girl was too innocent to notice this manner.

"If my mother wakes you will call me. Poor mamma! she is so kind."

"I will call you, I give you my word," Sanselme answered.

And the girl left the room, and in some ten minutes Sanselme heard her regular breathing; tired Nature a.s.serted herself.

Then he turned to the bed. From the rooms below came shrill laughter and the rattle of gla.s.ses. They cared little down there whether this poor creature lived or died. She was dying, of this Sanselme felt sure. He began to walk up and down the room, occasionally stopping at the side of the bed, as if seeking to discover in this pale, drawn face some forgotten image.

It was very cold, and the light was dim; by degrees the house became quiet. He sat in the one chair in the room buried in thought. Suddenly the sick woman began to toss on her bed. He went to her, and said, gently, "Are you in pain?"

"No."

"Then try to sleep."

"Sleep!" repeated the poor creature, and then, without any apparent reason, she said to herself, over and over again, "Accursed! Accursed!"

Then she began to whisper. She raised herself in her bed, and was terrible to look upon. "I was a good girl," she said, "more than that, I was an innocent one. I used to go to confession. I was told to do so."

Sanselme listened with beads of sweat on his brow. He determined to drink the cup to the dregs. "Yes," he said, "go on. It was at Selzheim."

"Selzheim! yes. Oh! how sweet it was there. There was a mountain, and a lovely brook where I bathed my feet when I was a little thing."

"And a Square and a fountain," whispered Sanselme.

"Yes, how gay it was there, when we all played together. And then he came, all in black. We thought him so kind and good. He was the cure, you know."

Sanselme started back.

"And when he said to me, 'Jane, why do you not come to confession?' I told him the truth, and said it was because I had nothing to confess."

"Go on! go on!" said Sanselme.

Further doubt was impossible, he was himself the infamous priest. He fell on his knees, and sobbed and wept.

The dying woman continued: "I went to confession as the cure bade me, and--"

But we will not dwell on this terrible story as told by these dying lips. The priest abused his trust. His superiors knew the truth, but with that _esprit de corps_, which is in fact complicity, simply removed him and avoided all open scandal. His victim remained in the village.

And because of his crime, she was condemned and despised. She was driven away, and gave birth to her child. And then, to live and to give bread to this child, she had become what she was.

Sanselme took the hand of the dying woman.

"And the child?" he asked. "Where is she?"

The woman looked at him with her big dark eyes. For the first time she seemed conscious of his presence. And suddenly, in spite of the lapse of years, she recognized him. She shrank away with a frenzied shrink.

"Yes, it is I! pardon me!" and Sanselme sank on his knees; "and tell me, I implore you, where the child is?"

She did not speak, she could not. She stretched out her hand, and pointed to the room where her daughter was.

"And she is my child?" cried Sanselme.

"Yes," answered the dying woman. And as if this simple word had snapped the mainspring of life, she fell dead on the floor.

He lifted her and laid her on the bed, and then the wretched man, crushed under the weight of his shame, dared to pray.

When morning broke he knocked on the door of the next room. The girl awoke with a start and ran out.

"Your mother is dead," he said, gently.

The next day Sanselme laid the poor woman in her grave. Then he said to the girl:

"I knew your mother. Before she died she made me promise never to desert you. Will you come to me?"

Jane Zeld was utterly crushed. She had no will of her own. Where else could she have gone? She felt herself surrounded by a circle of crime.

As long as her mother lived, the affection she received from her made her forget sometimes the sinister truth. But when she was alone in the world, she felt absolutely crushed by this ignominy. Pure as she was it seemed to herself that her mind was smirched.

Sanselme had come to a grave decision. He left Lyons and took Jane with him, she having no idea of the reason of his devotion. He called himself her intendant, and was anxious to perform the most menial offices, and in these felt as if he were in a measure making amends for the past. He had one aspiration, that of paternal martyrdom. Gently and with paternal affection Sanselme soothed the girl's shame and despair. He had preserved much of the persuasiveness of a priest, his language stirred and softened at one and the same time. But now every word that he uttered was sincere.

Jane remained excessively sad.