She sat still as a statue, and watched me sullenly while I spoke to her of the mysteries and consolations of our faith, exhorting her vainly to make confession and obtain that peace of heart and mind which the sacrament of penance could alone bestow.  Well, it chanced that on the occasion of one of these visits I took with me, besides my prayerbook, a small sheet of paper, on which I had written a few passages of Scripture, such as I conjectured to be most suited to her soul’s necessity.  I found her, as usual, moody and reserved, until I drew from my missal the sheet of transcribed texts and put it into her hand.  In an instant her manner changed.  The madness gleamed in her eyes, and she began searching nervously for a pencil. `I can do it!’ she cried. `My writing was always like hers, for we learnt together when we were children.  He will never know I wrote it; we shall dupe him easily.  Already I have practised her signature many times—­soon I shall be able to make it exactly like her own hand.  And I shall tell her, my lady, that he would have deceived her, that I overheard him love-making to another girl—­ that I discovered his falsehood—­his baseness—­and that he fled in his shame from the county.  Yes, yes, we will dupe them both.’

“In this fashion she chattered and muttered feverishly for some minutes, till I grew alarmed, and taking her by the shoulders, tried to shake back the senses into her distracted brain. `What ails you, foolish old woman? cried I `I am not “miladi;” I am your parish pastor.  Say your Pater Noster, or your Ave, and drive Satan away.’

“I am not sure whether my words or the removal of the unlucky manuscript recalled her wandering wits.  At any rate, she speedily recovered, and, after doing my best to soothe and calm her by leading her to speak on other topics, I quitted the cottage reassured.

“Not long after this episode a neighbor called at my house one morning, and told me that, having missed the old woman from the weekly market, and knowing how regular she had always been in her attendance, he had gone to her dwelling and found her lying sick and desiring to see me.  Of course I immediately prepared to comply with her request, providing myself in case I should find her anxious for absolution and the viaticum.  Directly I entered her hut, she beckoned me to the bedside, and said in a low, hurried voice:—­

“Father, I wish to confess to you at once, for I know I am going to die.’

“Perceiving that, for the present at least, she was perfectly sane, I willingly complied with her request, and heard her slowly and painfully unburden her miserable soul.

“Monsieur, if the story with which Virginie Giraud intrusted me had been told only in her sacramental confession, I should not have been able to repeat it to you.  But, when the final words of peace had been spoken, she took a packet of papers from beneath her pillow and placed it in my hands. `Here, father,’ she said, `is the substance of my history.  When I am dead, you are free to make what use of it you please.  It may warn some, perhaps, from yielding to the great temptation which overcame me.’