CHAPTER XXI.
A LAST APPEAL.
The poor girl was as pale as death, and so weak that she was obliged to half recline in a large easy-chair.
"Will you sit down, M. Onésime, and you too, my dear Suzanne and Segoffin," she said, with gentle dignity.
They all seated themselves in silence.
"Before beginning this conversation," said Sabine, with a melancholy smile, "I must tell you that I am greatly changed. The vague and often senseless fears which have haunted me from infancy seem to have vanished. The terrible reality seems to have dispelled these phantoms. I tell you this, my friends, so you may understand that it is no longer necessary to manifest so much caution and consideration in your treatment of me, and that you can tell me the entire truth with safety, no matter how terrible it may be. One word more: I adjure you, Suzanne, and you too, Segoffin, in the name of your devotion to me and to—other members of my family, to answer all my questions fully and truthfully. Will you promise to do this?"
"I promise," replied Suzanne.
"I promise," said Segoffin.
A brief silence followed.
All present, and more especially Onésime, were struck by the firm and resolute manner in which Sabine expressed herself, and felt that, whatever her decision might be, it would unquestionably prove unalterable.
"You saw me born, Suzanne," continued the young girl, after a moment, "and by your untiring care and faithful devotion you made yourself my mother's valued friend. It is in the name of this friendship that I adjure you to tell me if the memories of my infancy have deceived me, and if it was not my father who, twelve years ago, dressed as I saw him three days ago, caused—caused my mother's death."