“Alas! poor Adhémar tried to speak, but he had not the strength; he died without naming the woman whom he adored. I looked through his wallet, hoping to find the name and address there. Nothing—no paper, no scrap of information to put me on the track of those unfortunate creatures from whom I had taken their only support. I rushed away from the spot, beside myself with grief, like a madman. I had seen people coming; I was afraid of being arrested; for I said to myself: ‘If they deprive me of my liberty, how shall I find this woman whom I have deprived of her husband, this child whom I have deprived of her father?’”
“That child is here, monsieur, very near you—in this house.”
“Mon Dieu! what do you say, madame?”
“I say that Agathe is the daughter of Comte Adhémar de Hautmont!”
“Is it possible? are you not mistaken?”
“No, monsieur, and you shall have proofs of it—letters from the count which her poor mother possessed and kept religiously; they were all she had of his.”
“Agathe, Adhémar’s daughter! I have found her at last! O my God! hast Thou forgiven me?—But her mother?”
“Julia Montoni, Agathe’s mother, is no longer living. Poor woman! she died five years after the disappearance of the man she adored, and whom she never ceased to expect, for no one knew how the count had died. And when she went to his hotel to inquire what had become of him, they could give her no information. She caused inquiries to be made of his family, but obtained no reply; and when she was on her deathbed, when she commended her daughter to my care, poor Julia still hoped that Agathe’s father would be restored to her some day.”
“Ah! madame, from this day half of my fortune belongs to her. But do you think that she will forgive me for having deprived her of her father?”
“Your long repentance, your remorse for the duel, the seclusion and isolation to which you condemned yourself—all these surely entitle you to forgiveness.”