style="font-size:15px;"> "And you lost sight of the two after a shipwreck?"
"Yes, they are both dead."
"How do you know?"
It did not occur to Véronique to be astonished at this question, and she replied:
"My personal enquiries and the police enquiries were both based upon the same indisputable evidence, that of the four sailors."
"Who's to say they weren't telling lies?"
"Why should they tell lies?" asked Véronique, in surprise.
"Their evidence may have been bought; they may have been told what to say."
"By whom?"
"By your father."
"But what an idea!.. Besides, my father was dead!"
"I say once more: how do you know that?"
This time Véronique appeared stupefied:
"What are you hinting?" she whispered.
"One minute. Do you know the names of those four sailors?"
"I did know them, but I don't remember them."
"You don't remember that they were Breton names?"
"Yes, I do. But I don't see that."
"If you never came to Brittany, your father often did, because of the books he used to write. He used to stay in Brittany during your mother's lifetime. That being so, he must have had relations with the men of the country. Suppose that he had known the four sailors a long time, that these men were devoted to him or bribed by him and that he engaged them specially for that adventure. Suppose that they began by landing your father and your son at some little Italian port and that then, being four good swimmers, they scuttled and sank their yacht in view of the coast. Just suppose it."
"But the men are living!" cried Véronique, in growing excitement. "They can be questioned."
"Two of them are dead; they died a natural death a few years ago. The third is an old man called Maguennoc; you will find him at Sarek. As for the fourth, you may have seen him just now. He used the money which he made out of that business to buy a grocer's shop at Beg-Meil."
"Ah, we can speak to him at once!" cried Véronique, eagerly. "Let's go and fetch him."
"Why should we? I know more than he does."
"You know? You know?"
"I know everything that you don't. I can answer all your questions. Ask me what you like."
But Véronique dared not put the great question to her, the one which was beginning to quiver in the darkness of her consciousness. She was afraid of a truth which was perhaps not inconceivable, a truth of which she seemed to catch a faint glimpse; and she stammered, in mournful accents:
"I don't understand, I don't understand.. Why should my father have behaved like that? Why should he wish himself and my poor child to be thought dead?"
"Your father had sworn to have his revenge."
"On Vorski, yes; but surely not on me, his daughter?.. And such a revenge!"
"You loved your husband. Once you were in his power, instead of running away from him, you consented to marry him. Besides, the insult was a public one. And you know what your father was, with his violent, vindictive temperament and his rather.. his rather unbalanced nature, to use his own expression."
"But since then?"
"Since then! Since then! He felt remorseful as he grew older, what with his affection for the child.. and he tried everywhere to find you. The journeys I have taken, beginning with my journey to the Carmelites at Chartres! But you had left long ago.. and where for? Where were you to be found?"
"You could have advertised in the newspapers."
"He did try advertising, once, very cautiously, because of the scandal. There was a reply. Some one made an appointment and he kept it. Do you know who came to meet him? Vorski, Vorski, who was looking for you too, who still loved you.. and hated you. Your father became frightened and did not dare act openly."
Véronique did not speak. She felt very faint and sat down on the stone, with her head bowed.
Then she murmured:
"You speak of my father as though he were still alive to-day."
"He is."
"And as though you saw him often."
"Daily."
"And on the other hand" – Véronique lowered her voice – "on the other hand you do not say a word of my son. And that suggests a horrible thought: perhaps he did not live? Perhaps he is dead since? Is that why you do not mention him?"
She raised her head with an effort. Honorine was smiling.
"Oh, please, please," Véronique entreated, "tell me the truth! It is terrible to hope more than one has a right to. Do tell me."
Honorine put her arm round Véronique's neck:
"Why, my poor, dear lady, would I have told you all this if my handsome François had been dead?"
"He is alive, he is alive?" cried Véronique, wildly.
"Why, of course he is and in the best of health! Oh, he's a fine, sturdy little chap, never fear, and so steady on his legs! And I have every right to be proud of him, because it's I who brought him up, your little François."
She felt Véronique, who was leaning on her shoulder, give way to emotions which were too much for her and which certainly contained as much suffering as joy; and she said:
"Cry, my dear lady, cry; it will do you good. It's a better sort of crying than it was, eh? Cry, until you've forgotten all your old troubles. I'm going back to the village. Have you a bag of any kind at the inn? They know me there. I'll bring it back with me and we'll be off."
When the Breton woman returned, half an hour later, she saw Véronique standing and beckoning to her to hurry and heard her calling:
"Quick, quick! Heavens, what a time you've been! We have not a minute to lose."
Honorine, however, did not hasten her pace and did not reply. Her rugged face was without a smile.
"Well, are we going to start?" asked Véronique, running up to her. "There's nothing to delay us, is there, no obstacle? What's the matter? You seem quite changed."
"No, no."
"Then let's be quick."
Honorine, with her assistance, put the bag and the provisions on board. Then, suddenly standing in front of Véronique, she said:
"You're quite sure, are you, that the woman on the cross, as she was shown in the drawing, was yourself?"
"Absolutely. Besides, there were my initials above the head."
"That's a strange thing,"
