"I retreated unobserved, to a corner of the room, fearing she would not live through the last confession of her blameless life. A dim lamp, from which she was carefully screened, shed a sickly gleam around the apartment; and, even in the deep silence of that awful hour, the low and labored whispers of her voice scarcely reached my ear. Suddenly I was startled by a suppressed, but fervent exclamation from the monk, instantly followed by a faint cry from your mother's lips. I flew to the bed; she had raised herself from the pillow, her arms were extended, as in the act of supplication, and a celestial glow irradiated her dying features. The priest stood in an attitude of eager attention: his cowl was removed; and, judge of my sensations, when I recognized the countenance of De Courcy!"
"My father!" exclaimed Luciè; "that priest"—
"Wait, and you shall know all;" interrupted Madame de la Tour. "That priest was indeed your father; he had taken the vows of a rigid order, and Providence guided him to the death-bed of your mother. I pass over the scene which followed; it is too hallowed for description. Suffice it to say, the solemn confession of that dreadful moment convinced him of her innocence, and her last sufferings were soothed by mutual reconciliation and forgiveness. Your father closed her eyes in their last sleep, and pressing you for an instant to his heart, rushed almost frantic from the convent.
"On the following day, my father sought De Courcy at the monastery, hoping to draw him back to the world by the touching claims of parental love. But he had already left it, never to return; and the superior had sworn to conceal his new abode from every human being. Before leaving the convent, on the night of your mother's death, he confirmed her bequest, which had already given you to my eldest sister, then a rigid Catholic. But my father soon after became a convert to the opinions of the Hugonots, to which we also inclined; and my sister's marriage with M. Rossville confirmed her in those sentiments. She thought proper to educate you in a faith which she had adopted from deliberate conviction; and, as your father had renounced his claims, she of course felt responsible only to her own conscience. Every effort to find him, indeed, continued unavailing; years passed away, and by all who had known him he was numbered as with the dead.
"But your father still lived, Luciè, and the recollection of his injured wife forever haunted him; her misery, her untimely death, all weighed heavily on his conscience, and he sought to expiate his crime by a life of austerity, and the most constant and painful acts of self-denial and devotion. Yet the severest penance which he inflicted on himself was to renounce his child, to burst the ties of natural affection, that no earthly claims might interfere with those holy duties to which he had consecrated his future life."
"Just heavens!" said Luciè, with emotion; "could such a sacrifice be exacted? dearest aunt, tell me if he yet lives, if I am right"—
"He does live," interrupted Madame de la Tour; "he received permission to quit his monastery only to fulfil a more rigid vow, which bound him to a life of unremitting hardship; and, after a severe illness, that for several weeks deprived him of reason, he at length reached this new world, where for nearly twenty years"—
"Father Gilbert!" exclaimed Luciè, starting from her seat in powerful agitation.
"Yes," said a deep, solemn voice; and the dark form of the priest, who had entered unnoticed, stood beside her; "my child, behold your father!"