She shivered and drew a breath. “In short, my strength fails me. You were right, my friend, in thinking it would be a relief to confide in you. But, I beseech you, tell me what is happening in the depths of my heart. My life was once so peaceful; I was so happy. A thunderbolt has fallen on me. Why on me? Why not on another? I had done nothing to bring it on; I imagined myself well protected. Ah, if you only knew—I know myself no longer! Help me, save me!” Then as she became silent, the priest, with the wonted freedom of the confessor, mechanically asked the question: “The name? tell me his name?” She was hesitating, when a peculiar noise prompted her to turn her head. It came from the doll which, in Monsieur Rambaud’s hands, was by degrees renewing its mechanical life, and had just taken three steps on the table, with a creaking of wheels and springs which showed that there was still something faulty in its works. Then it had fallen on its back, and but for the worthy man would have rebounded onto the ground. He followed all its movements with outstretched hands, ready to support it, and full of paternal anxiety. The moment he perceived Hélène turn, he smiled confidently towards her, as if to give her an assurance that the doll would recover its walking powers. And then he once more dived with scissors and bodkin into the toy. Jeanne still slept on. Thereupon Hélène, her nerves relaxing under the influence of the universal quiet, whispered a name in the priest’s ear. He never stirred; in the darkness his face could not be seen. A silence ensued, and he responded: “I knew it, but I wanted to hear it from your own lips. My daughter, yours must be terrible suffering.” He gave utterance to no truisms on the subject of duty. Hélène, overcome, saddened to the heart by this unemotional pity, gazed once more on the lights which spangled the gloomy veil enshrouding Paris. They were flashing everywhere in myriads, like the sparks that dart over the blackened refuse of burnt paper. At first these twinkling dots had started from the Trocadero towards the heart of the city. Soon another coruscation had appeared on the left in the direction of Montmartre; then another had burst into view on the right behind the Invalides, and still another, more distant near the Panthéon. From all these centres flights of flames were simultaneously descending. “You remember our conversation,” slowly resumed the Abbé. “My opinion has not changed. My daughter, you must marry.” “I!” she exclaimed, overwhelmed with amazement. “But I have just confessed to you—Oh, you know well I cannot—” “You must marry,” he repeated with greater decision. “You will wed an honest man.” Within the folds of his old cassock he seemed to have grown more commanding. His large comical-looking head, which, with eyes half-closed, was usually inclined towards one shoulder, was now raised erect, and his eyes beamed with such intensity that she saw them sparkling in the darkness.