"Oh, no, I am not delirious! In this casket, containing some papers and a portrait, which will prove to you the truth of what I say, you will find a paper stained with my blood!" "Your blood!" "The woman who told me that our daughter was still living declared to me this disclosure when she stabbed me with her dagger." "And who was she? How did she know?" "It was she to whom the child was confided when very young, after she had been declared dead." "But this woman? Can she be believed? How did you know her?" "I tell you, Rodolph, that this is all fated--providential! Some months ago you snatched a young girl from misery, to send her to the country. Jealousy and hatred possessed me. I had her carried off by the woman of whom I have been speaking." "And they took the poor girl to St. Lazare?" "Where she is still." "She is there no longer. Ah, you do not know, madame, the fearful evil you have occasioned me by snatching the unfortunate girl away from the retreat in which I had placed her; but--" "The young girl is no longer at St. Lazare!" cried Sarah, with dismay; "ah, what fearful news is this!" "A monster of avarice had an interest in her destruction. They have drowned her, madame! But answer! You say that--" "My daughter!" exclaimed Sarah, interrupting Rodolph, and standing erect, as straight and motionless as a statue of marble. "What does she say? Good heaven!" cried Rodolph. "My daughter!" repeated Sarah, whose features became livid and frightful in their despair. "They have murdered my daughter!" "The Goualeuse your daughter!" uttered Rodolph, retreating with horror. "The Goualeuse! Yes, that was the name which the woman they call the Chouette used. Dead--dead!" repeated Sarah, still motionless, with her eyes fixed. "They have killed her!" "Sarah!" said Rodolph, as pale and as fearful to look upon as the countess; "be calm,--recover yourself,--answer me! The Goualeuse,--the young girl whom you had carried off by the Chouette from Bouqueval,--was she our daughter?" "Yes. And they have killed her!" "Oh, no, no; you are mad! It cannot be! You do not know! No, no; you cannot tell how fearful this would be! Sarah, be firm,--speak to me calmly,--sit down,--compose yourself! There are often resemblances, appearances which deceive if we are inclined to believe what we desire. I do not reproach you; but explain yourself to me, tell me all the reasons which induced you to think this; for it cannot be,--no, no, it cannot be,--it is not so!" After a moment's pause, the countess collected her thoughts, and said to Rodolph, in a faltering voice, "Learning your marriage, and thinking of marrying myself, I could not keep our child with me; she was then four years of age." "But at that time I begged her of you with prayers, entreaties," cried Rodolph, in a heartrending tone, "and my letters were unanswered; the only one you wrote to me announced her death!"