“Yes; after fruitless endeavors to find the two persons whom the count had so earnestly recommended to me, I returned to this region, to the stage upon which those events took place. The woman who was the cause of everything had left her Couberon estate long before. I found, in the ravine, the modest memorial of the unfortunate Adhémar; an estate near by was for sale; I bought it and went into retirement there. Far from the world which I hated, and near the last resting-place of the victim of my blind jealousy, I was enabled to visit the ravine every day, to visit the spot where that fatal duel took place, and to weep by the cross which has been set up where Adhémar lies.—Ah! if his daughter had seen me there, she would forgive me!”
“She has seen you there; that evening, after the storm, Agathe and I heard you praying by the cross.”
“Is it possible?”
“Yes; and Agathe herself said: ‘That gentleman cannot be guilty; he regrets too sincerely the person who lies there.’”
“Dear child! poor girl!—But that is not all, madame. Still hoping that I might sooner or later find the count’s natural daughter, I went to his family. There I asked if anyone knew the name of the young woman whom Adhémar loved. His people did not know, or at all events they would give me no information. But one old uncle, who was more kind-hearted and indulgent than the rest, said to me: ‘They are concealing from me too the name of the young woman whom my nephew wanted to marry. But if you ever succeed in finding her, tell her that her daughter, Adhémar’s daughter, shall have the whole of my fortune; that I will leave everything I possess to her.’
“That old man is still alive, I know. And Agathe, you say, has letters from Adhémar to her mother. Those letters will suffice to prove that she is his daughter, and to give her the fortune that is destined for her; for I am certain that this uncle, by recognizing her as his niece, will give her the right to bear her father’s name.”
“Mon Dieu! this seems like a dream. My poor Agathe rich and happy! Suppose I wake her?”
“No, no! Let me prepare myself to see her. If you knew all that I feel! Ah! madame, you have made me very happy; and yet I tremble—it seems to me that I shall not dare to face this girl whom I have wronged so terribly!”
“Calm yourself, monsieur; your duel was the result of a mistake, of an act of perfidy; the sole culprit was that woman who so ill requited your love for her.”
“But I am no longer surprised by this dog’s affection for Agathe. As I have told you, he always showed the greatest friendliness for her father. On that fatal day, when I went to Couberon, I left Ami at Paris. When he saw me again after the duel, instead of coming to meet me as he usually did, he retreated, making a plaintive sort of groaning noise; one would have said that he meant to reproach me for what I had done. It took a long time to recover his affection, and he never fawned upon me again until he had seen me weeping over Adhémar’s grave.”