"These thoughts are very sinful, my daughter," said the priest, sternly. "They caused you to take a most imprudent step yesterday."
"Have no fears, my father. It is impossible that the woman I sent for yesterday, openly, in order to avert any suspicion, should suspect my motive in asking for information which she alone could give."
"And this information?"
"Confirmed—as I anticipated—in the most irrefutable manner—what I already knew—that Herminie is my daughter."
"But why do you feel so sure of this woman's discretion?"
"Because she lost all trace of my daughter after their separation sixteen years ago."
"But are you sure this woman did not recognise you?"
"I confessed to you, my father, that I had a mask on my face when I brought Herminie into the world with this woman's aid, and yesterday, in my interview with her, I found it easy to convince her that the mother of the child I was inquiring about had been dead for several years."
"It is necessary that I should grant you absolution for this act of deception," answered Abbé Ledoux, with great severity. "You can see now the fatal consequences of your criminal solicitude for a person who, after your vow, should always have remained a stranger to you."
"Ah, that oath which remorse and gratitude for the most generous forgiveness extorted from me! I have often cursed it,—but I have always kept it, my father."