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 wi