on with tottering steps towards the group of servants in the open doorway of Madame de Beaumesnil's chamber, and knelt there in the midst of them.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE UNHAPPY SECRET.
Through the open doorway before which Herminie had just knelt, she could see by the wan light of an alabaster lamp Madame de Beaumesnil, a woman only about thirty-eight years of age, but frightfully pale and emaciated. The countess, who was sitting up in bed, supported by pillows, had her hands clasped devoutly. Her features, once of rare beauty, were drawn and haggard, her large eyes, formerly of a clear, bright blue, had lost their lustre, though they were riveted with mingled anxiety and anguish upon the face of Abbé Ledoux, her parish priest, who had just administered the last sacrament.
A minute before Herminie's arrival, Madame de Beaumesnil, lowering her voice still more, though weakness and suffering had already reduced it to little more than a faint whisper, had said to the priest:
"Ah, my father, forgive me, but even at this solemn hour I cannot help thinking with even more bitterness of heart of that poor child—my other daughter—the unhappy fruit of a sin which has burdened my life with the most poignant remorse."
"Hush, madame," replied the priest, who, as he cast a furtive glance at the kneeling servants, had just seen Herminie take her place in their midst; "hush, madame, she is here."
"She is?"
"Yes, she came in a moment ago, and is now kneeling with your people."
As he spoke, the priest turned and walked towards the door to close it, after having first intimated by a gesture that the sad ceremony was over.
"I remember now—that yesterday—when Herminie left me—I begged her to return to-day at this very hour. The physician was right—the angelic voice of the dear child, her tender melodies, have often assuaged my sufferings."
"Take care, madame. Be more prudent, I beg of you," pleaded the priest, alone now with the invalid.
"Oh, I am. My daughter suspects nothing," answered Madame de Beaumesnil, with a bitter smile.
"That is quite probable," said the priest, "for it was only chance, or, rather, the inscrutable will of Providence, that brought this young woman to your notice a short time ago. Doubtless it is the Saviour's will that you should be subjected to a still harder test."
"Hard, indeed, my father, since I shall be obliged to depart from this life without ever having said 'my daughter' to this unfortunate girl. Alas! I shall carry my wretched secret with me to the grave."
"Your vow imposes this sacrifice upon you, madame. It is a sacred obligation," said the priest, severely. "To break your vow, to thus perjure yourself, would be sacrilege."
"I have never thought of perjuring myself, my father," replied Madame de Beaumesnil, despondently; "but God is punishing me cruelly. I am dying, and yet I am forced to treat as a stranger my own child—who is there—only a few feet from me, kneeling among my people, and who must never know that I am her mother."
"Your sin was great, madame. The expiation must be correspondingly great."
"But how long it has lasted for me, my father. Faithful to my vow, I never even tried to discover what had become of my unfortunate child. Alas! but for the chance which brought her to my notice a few days ago, I should have died without having seen her for seventeen years."
"These thoughts are very sinful, my daughter," said the priest, sternly. "They caused you to take a most imprudent step yesterday."
"Have no fears, my father. It is impossible that the woman I sent for yesterday, openly, in order to avert any suspicion, should suspect my motive in asking for information which she alone could give."
"And this information?"
"Confirmed—as I anticipated—in the most irrefutable manner—what I already knew—that Herminie is my daughter."
"But why do you feel so sure of this woman's discretion?"
"Because she lost all trace of my daughter after their separation sixteen years ago."
"But are you sure this woman did not recognise you?"
"I confessed to you, my father, that I had a mask on my face when I brought Herminie into the world with this woman's aid, and yesterday, in my interview with her, I found it easy to convince her that the mother of the child I was inquiring about had been dead for several years."
"It is necessary that I should grant you absolution for this act of deception," answered Abbé Ledoux, with great severity. "You can see now the fatal consequences of your criminal solicitude for a person who, after your vow, should always have remained a stranger to you."
"Ah, that oath which remorse and gratitude for the most generous forgiveness extorted from me! I have often cursed it—but I have always kept it, my father."
"And yet, my sister, even at such an hour as this, your every thought is given to that young girl."
"No, not my every thought, my father, for I have another child. But alas! I cannot prevent my heart from throbbing faster at the approach of Herminie, who is also my daughter. Can I prevent my heart from going out to her? I may have courage to control my lips, to guard my eyes, and to conceal my feelings when Herminie is with me, but I cannot prevent myself from feeling a mother's tenderness for her."
"Then you must forbid the girl the house," said the priest, sternly. "You can easily invent a plausible pretext for that, I am sure. Thank her for her services, and—"
"No, no, I should never have the courage to do that," said the countess, quickly. "Is it not hard enough for me that my other daughter, whose affection would have been so consoling in this trying hour, is in a foreign land, mourning the loss of the father of whom she was so suddenly bereft? And who knows, perhaps Ernestine, too, is dying as I am. Poor child! She was so weak and frail when she went away! Oh, was there ever a mother as much to be pitied as I am?"
And two burning tears fell from Madame de Beaumesnil's eyes.
"Calm yourself, my sister," said the abbé, soothingly; "do not grieve so. Put your trust in Heaven. Our Saviour's mercy is great. He has sustained you through this solemn ceremony, which was, as I told you, merely a precaution, for, God be praised! your condition, though alarming, is by no means hopeless."
Madame de Beaumesnil shook her head sadly, as she replied:
"I am growing weaker fast, my father, but now that my last duties are performed I feel much calmer. Ah, if I did not have my children to think of, I could die in peace."
"I understand you, my sister," said the priest, soothingly. Then watching Madame de Beaumesnil's face closely all the while, he continued:
"I understand you, my sister. The future of your child, your legitimate child—I cannot and must not speak of the other—her future excites your liveliest apprehensions—and you are right—an orphan—and so young, poor child!"
"Alas!
