her, but she had always escaped
them. I was then staying a few miles from Strasburg. Hearing much talk
of a wild woman caught in the woods, I felt a desire to ascertain the
truth of the ridiculous stories which were current about her. What were
my feelings on beholding my own niece! Fleuriot told me all he knew of
her dreadful history. I took the poor man with my niece back to my home
in Auvergne, where, unfortunately, I lost him some months later. He had
some slight control over Madame de Vandieres; he alone could induce her
to wear clothing. 'Adieu,' that word, which is her only language, she
seldom uttered at that time. Fleuriot had endeavored to awaken in her a
few ideas, a few memories of the past; but he failed; all that he gained
was to make her say that melancholy word a little oftener. Still, the
grenadier knew how to amuse her and play with her; my hope was in him,
but--"

He was silent for a moment.

"Here," he continued, "she has found another creature, with whom
she seems to have some strange understanding. It is a poor idiotic
peasant-girl, who, in spite of her ugliness and stupidity, loved a man,
a mason. The mason was willing to marry her, as she had some property.
Poor Genevieve was happy for a year; she dressed in her best to dance
with her lover on Sunday; she comprehended love; in her heart and soul
there was room for that one sentiment. But the mason, Dallot, reflected.
He found a girl with all her senses, and more land than Genevieve,
and he deserted the poor creature. Since then she has lost the little
intellect that love developed in her; she can do nothing but watch the
cows, or help at harvesting. My niece and this poor girl are friends,
apparently by some invisible chain of their common destiny, by
the sentiment in each which has caused their madness. See!" added
Stephanie's uncle, leading the marquis to a window.

The latter then saw the countess seated on the ground between
Genevieve's legs. The peasant-girl, armed with a huge horn comb, was
giving her whole attention to the work of disentangling the long black
hair of the poor countess, who was uttering little stifled cries,
expressive of some instinctive sense of pleasure. Monsieur d'Albon
shuddered as he saw the utter abandonment of the body, the careless
animal ease which revealed in the hapless woman a total absence of soul.

"Philippe, Philippe!" he muttered, "the past horrors are nothing!--Is
there no hope?" he asked.

The old p