These words, uttered in a loud voice, in the midst of the silence which preceded, the sacred ceremony, were heard by everyone.  They were answered by a shriek.  Vaninka had fainted.  The next day the general, at the feet of Paul, recounted to him, as his sovereign and judge, the whole terrible story, which Vaninka, crushed by her long struggle, had at last revealed to him, at night, after the scene in the church.

The emperor remained for a moment in thought at the end of this strange confession; then, getting up from the chair where he had been sitting while the miserable father told his story, he went to a bureau, and wrote on a sheet of paper the following sentence: 

“The priest having violated what should have been inviolable, the secrets of the confessional, is exiled to Siberia and deprived of his priestly office.  His wife will follow him:  she is to be blamed for not having respected his character as a minister of the altar.  The little girl will not leave her parents.

“Annouschka, the attendant, will also go to Siberia for not having made known to her master his daughter’s conduct.

“I preserve all my esteem for the general, and I mourn with him for the deadly blow which has struck him.

“As for Vaninka, I know of no punishment which can be inflicted upon her.  I only see in her the daughter of a brave soldier, whose whole life has been devoted to the service of his country.  Besides, the extraordinary way in which the crime was discovered, seems to place the culprit beyond the limits of my severity.  I leave her punishment in her own hands.  If I understand her character, if any feeling of dignity remains to her, her heart and her remorse will show her the path she ought to follow.”

Paul handed the paper open to the general, ordering him to take it to Count Pahlen, the governor of St. Petersburg.

On the following day the emperor’s orders were carried out.

Vaninka went into a convent, where towards the end of the same year she died of shame and grief.

The general found the death he sought on the field of Austerlitz.

THE MARQUISE DE GANGES—­1657

Toward the close of the year 1657, a very plain carriage, with no arms painted on it, stopped, about eight o’clock one evening, before the door of a house in the rue Hautefeuille, at which two other coaches were already standing.  A lackey at once got down to open the carriage door; but a sweet, though rather tremulous voice stopped him, saying, “Wait, while I see whether this is the place.”

Then a head, muffled so closely in a black satin mantle that no feature could be distinguished, was thrust from one of the carriage windows, and looking around, seemed to seek for some decisive sign on the house front.  The unknown lady appeared to be satisfied by her inspection, for she turned back to her companion.