“And you dared to do that?” he cried, in a furious rage.
“It was for twenty francs. I could never have opened my lips but for the twenty francs, sir. In the first place, I knew nothing about it until he told me, so that I could repeat it.”
“The wretch! But who could have told him?”
A groan from the sick-bed recalled the physician to his duty. All the long night he watched there, and when all was over he returned in haste to Etiolles and went directly in search of Cécile. Her room was empty, and the bed had not been slept in. His heart stood still. He ran to the office, still he found no one. But the door of Madeleine’s old room stood open, and there among the relics of the dear dead, prostrate on the Prie-Dieu, was Cécile asleep, in an attitude that told of a night of prayer and tears. She opened her eyes as her grandfather touched her.
“And the wretches told you the secret that we have taken so much pains to hide from you! And strangers and enemies told you, my poor little darling, the sad tale we concealed.”
She hid her face on his shoulder. “I am so ashamed,” she whispered.
“And this is the reason that you did not wish to marry? Tell me why?”
“Because I did not wish to acknowledge my mother’s dishonor, and my conscience compelled me to have no secrets from my husband. There was but one thing to do, and I did it.”
“But you love him?”
“With my whole heart; and I believe he loves me so well that he would marry me in spite of my shameful history; but I would never consent to such a sacrifice. A man does not marry a girl who has no father—who has no name, or, if she had one, it would be that of a robber and forger.”