“December 15th, ten o’clock in the morning.
“All is over. This morning the Abbé de Saint-Maurice came.
“My women told him that the child was dead, and that I, in my despair, had wished, in pious resignation, to shroud it myself in its coffin.
“You know that this poor priest is very old; and, besides, he has known me from my birth, and has a blind confidence in me, and not for a moment did he suspect this impious lie.
“He prayed over an empty coffin!
“Sacrilege, sacrilege!
“Oh, God will be without pity! At last the coffin was carried and buried in our family chapel.
“Yesterday, in the night, for the last time I embraced this unfortunate child, now abandoned, now without a name. Now the shame and remorse of those who have given it birth will ever—
“I could not give him up—I could not. Alas! it was always a kiss,—just a last kiss. When Justine snatched it from my arms it uttered a pitiful cry.
“Oh, that feeble wail of sorrow reëchoes in the depths of my soul; what a fatal omen!