"Sir, I am acquainted with the rectitude of your principles; but all my hope—my only hope—is in your pity. Under any event, I may rely on your discretion?"
"Madame, you may."
"Well, then, I will proceed. The death of this poor child was so great a shock to her mother, that her grief is as great now as it was fourteen years since, and, having then feared for her life, we are now in dread for her reason."
"Poor mother!" said M. Ferrand, in a tone of sympathy.
"Oh, yes, poor unhappy mother, indeed, sir! for she could only blush at the birth of her child at the time when she lost it; whilst now circumstances are such, that, if the child were still alive, my sister could render her legitimate, be proud of her, and never again allow her to quit her. Thus this incessant regret, coming to add to her other sorrows, we are afraid every hour lest she should be bereft of her senses."
"It is unfortunate that nothing can be done in the matter."
"Yes, sir—"
"What, madame?"
"Suppose some one told the poor mother, 'Your child was reported to be dead, but she did not die: the woman who had charge of her when she was little could vouch for this.'"
"Such a falsehood, madame, would be cruel. Why give so vain a hope to the poor mother?"