She was not listening; a strife was raging in her bosom, amidst her efforts to read her innermost thoughts aright.  And at last confession came from her in a broken whisper: 

“Oh! yes, I love, and that is all!  Beyond that I know nothing —­nothing!”

He now forbore to interrupt her; she spoke in short feverish sentences, taking a mournful pleasure in thus confessing her love, in sharing with that venerable priest the secret which had so long burdened her.

“I swear I cannot read my thoughts.  This has come to me without my knowing its presence.  Perhaps it came in a moment.  Only in time did I realize its sweetness.  Besides, why should I deem myself stronger than I am?  I have made no effort to flee from it; I was only too happy, and to-day I have yet less power of resistance.  My daughter was ill; I almost lost her.  Well! my love has been as intense as my sorrow; it came back with sovereign power after those days of terror—­and it possesses me, I feel transported—­”

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 Helene 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 Helene, 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.”