Saying these words, her eyes shone with the stoic pride of a savage.  The archbishop, standing behind her, and as if protecting her with the pastoral cross, abandoned his impassible demeanor and covered his eyes with his right hand.  A muffled cry was heard, as though some one were dying.  Two persons, Gerard and Roubaud, received and carried away in their arms, Denise Tascheron, unconscious.  That sight seemed for an instant to quench the fire in Veronique’s eyes; she was evidently uneasy; but soon her self-control and serenity of martyrdom resumed their sway.

“You now know,” she continued, “that I deserve neither praise or blessing for my conduct here.  I have led in sight of Heaven, a secret life of bitter penance which Heaven will estimate.  My life before men has been an immense reparation for the evils I have caused; I have marked my repentance ineffaceably on the earth; it will last almost eternally here below.  It is written on those fertile fields, in the prosperous village, in the rivulets brought from the mountains to water the plain once barren and fruitless, now green and fertile.  Not a tree will be cut for a hundred years to come but the people of this region will know of the remorse that made it grow.  My repentant soul will still live here among you.  What you will owe to its efforts, to a fortune honorably acquired, is the heritage of its repentance,—­the repentance of her who caused the crime.  All has been repaired so far as society is concerned; but I am still responsible for that life, crushed in its bud,—­a life confided to me and for which I am now required to render an account.”

The flame of her eyes was veiled in tears.

“There is here, before me, a man,” she continued, “who, because he did his duty strictly, has been to me an object of hatred which I thought eternal.  He was the first inflictor of my punishment.  My feet were still too deep in blood, I was too near the deed, not to hate justice.  So long as that root of anger lay in my heart, I knew there was still a lingering remnant of condemnable passion.  I had nothing to forgive that man, I have only had to purify that corner of my heart where Evil lurked.  However hard it may have been to win that victory, it is won.”

Monsieur de Grandville turned a face to Veronique that was bathed in tears.  Human justice seemed at that moment to feel remorse.  When the confessing woman raised her head as if to continue, she met the agonizing look of old man Grossetete, who stretched his supplicating hands to her as if to say, “Enough, enough!” At the same instant a sound of tears and sobs was heard.  Moved by such sympathy, unable to bear the balm of this general pardon, she was seized with faintness.  Seeing that her daughter’s vital force was gone at last, the old mother summoned the vigor of her youth to carry her away.

“Christians,” said the archbishop, “you have heard the confession of that penitent woman; it confirms the sentence of human justice.  You ought to see in this fresh reason to join your prayers to those of the Church which offers to God the holy sacrifice of the mass, to implore his mercy in favor of so deep a repentance.”