The dying woman continued: "I went to confession as the curé bade me, and—"
But we will not dwell on this terrible story as told by these dying lips. The priest abused his trust. His superiors knew the truth, but with that esprit de corps, which is in fact complicity, simply removed him and avoided all open scandal. His victim remained in the village. And because of his crime, she was condemned and despised. She was driven away, and gave birth to her child. And then, to live and to give bread to this child, she had become what she was.
Sanselme took the hand of the dying woman.
"And the child?" he asked. "Where is she?"
The woman looked at him with her big dark eyes. For the first time she seemed conscious of his presence. And suddenly, in spite of the lapse of years, she recognized him. She shrank away with a frenzied shrink.
"Yes, it is I! pardon me!" and Sanselme sank on his knees; "and tell me, I implore you, where the child is?"
She did not speak, she could not. She stretched out her hand, and pointed to the room where her daughter was.
"And she is my child?" cried Sanselme.
"Yes," answered the dying woman. And as if this simple word had snapped the mainspring of life, she fell dead on the floor.
He lifted her and laid her on the bed, and then the wretched man, crushed under the weight of his shame, dared to pray.