"Bérangère knows the formula and must not communicate it to any one except you alone, Victorien. You will marry her, will you not? She is not my daughter, but Noël Dorgeroux's. She was born five months after my marriage, as you can confirm by consulting the public records. Forgive me, both of you, and pray for me." A long pause followed. Bérangère was weeping tears of joy. A radiant light was being thrown on her whole life. The awful weight that had bowed her down in shame and despair no longer bore upon her shoulders. She was at last able to breathe and hold her head high and look straight before her and accept her share of happiness and love. She whispered: "Is it possible? Noël Dorgeroux's daughter? Is it possible?" "It is possible," I said, "and it is certain. After his rightful struggle with Velmot and after the care which you bestowed upon him once you had saved him, Massignac repented. Thinking of the day of his death, he tried to atone for a part of his crimes and wrote you that letter . . . which evidently possesses no legal value, but which you and I will accept as the truth. You are the daughter of Noël Dorgeroux, Bérangère, of the man whom you always loved as a father . . . and who wanted us to be married. Will you dream of disobeying his wishes, Bérangère? Do you not think that it is our duty to join forces and together to complete his enterprise? You know the indispensable formula. By publishing it, we shall make Noël Dorgeroux's wonderful life-work endure for ever. Do you consent, Bérangère?" She did not reply at once; and, when I again tried to convince her, I saw that she was listening with an absent expression, in which I was surprised to find a certain anxiety: "What is it, darling? You accept, do you not?" "Yes, yes," she said, "but, before everything I must try to jog my memory. Only think! How careless of me not to have written the formula down! Certainly, I know it by heart. But, all the same . . ." She thought for a long time, screwing up her forehead and moving her lips. Suddenly she said: "A paper and pencil . . . quickly. . . ." I handed her a writing-block. Swiftly, with a trembling hand, she jotted down a few figures. Then she stopped and looked at me with eyes full of anguish. I understood the effort which she had made and, to calm her, said: "Don't rack your brains now . . . it'll come later. . . . What you need to-day is rest. Go to sleep, my darling." "I must find it . . . at all costs. . . . I must. . . ." "You'll find it some other time. You are tired now and excited. Rest yourself." She did as I said and ended by falling asleep. But an hour after, she woke up, took the sheet of paper again and, in a moment or two, stammered: "This is dreadful! My brain refuses to work! Oh, but it hurts, it hurts! . . ."