"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 Abbe 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."