As he spoke, the priest turned and walked towards the door to close it, after having first intimated by a gesture that the sad ceremony was over.
"I remember now—that yesterday—when Herminie left me—I begged her to return to-day at this very hour. The physician was right,—the angelic voice of the dear child, her tender melodies, have often assuaged my sufferings."
"Take care, madame. Be more prudent, I beg of you," pleaded the priest, alone now with the invalid.
"Oh, I am. My daughter suspects nothing," answered Madame de Beaumesnil, with a bitter smile.
"That is quite probable," said the priest, "for it was only chance, or, rather, the inscrutable will of Providence, that brought this young woman to your notice a short time ago. Doubtless it is the Saviour's will that you should be subjected to a still harder test."
"Hard, indeed, my father, since I shall be obliged to depart from this life without ever having said 'my daughter' to this unfortunate girl. Alas! I shall carry my wretched secret with me to the grave."
"Your vow imposes this sacrifice upon you, madame. It is a sacred obligation," said the priest, severely. "To break your vow, to thus perjure yourself, would be sacrilege."
"I have never thought of perjuring myself, my father," replied Madame de Beaumesnil, despondently; "but God is punishing me cruelly. I am dying, and yet I am forced to treat as a stranger my own child,—who is there—only a few feet from me, kneeling among my people, and who must never know that I am her mother."
"Your sin was great, madame. The expiation must be correspondingly great."
"But how long it has lasted for me, my father. Faithful to my vow, I never even tried to discover what had become of my unfortunate child. Alas! but for the chance which brought her to my notice a few days ago, I should have died without having seen her for seventeen years."