Fanfar naturally felt that there must be some connection between these two persons. Some frightful tragedy had been enacted. But he also felt that absolute secrecy was due the two unfortunates, till at last it was plain that there was no danger in revealing the adventure.
Days elapsed. Sanselme had terrible attacks of frenzy, and the woman, when she was able to move, had risen from her bed and gone to the door of her room, where she stood with terror and anguish imprinted on every feature, and if any one entered the room she would press both hands on her breast and utter a terrible shriek.
Finally Fanfar's wife had called him to see a scar on the breast of the unfortunate creature. She had certainly received a terrible wound, but when and where? The scar was not a new one.
Fanfar had sent Bobichel to the Vicomte's, for he had reproached himself that he had neglected Esperance in his interest for these two strangers. He sat near Sanselme's bed, and in the next room the mad woman was asleep, crouching on the floor near the door.
Fanfar looked at the man before him, and his unerring instinct told him that this livid, worn face had known not only great sorrow, but terrible remorse.
Sanselme said something. Fanfar leaned over him to hear more distinctly.
"My daughter; dead! dead!"
And these words were repeated over and over again. What did this mean? The woman Sanselme had saved was older than he; she could not be his daughter.
Fanfar said in distinct but soothing tones, "You have a daughter? You have lost her?"