drowned her, madame! But answer! You say that--"

"My daughter!" exclaimed Sarah, interrupting Rodolph, and standing
erect, as straight and motionless as a statue of marble.

"What does she say? Good heaven!" cried Rodolph.

"My daughter!" repeated Sarah, whose features became livid and frightful
in their despair. "They have murdered my daughter!"

"The Goualeuse your daughter!" uttered Rodolph, retreating with horror.

"The Goualeuse! Yes, that was the name which the woman they call the
Chouette used. Dead--dead!" repeated Sarah, still motionless, with her
eyes fixed. "They have killed her!"

"Sarah!" said Rodolph, as pale and as fearful to look upon as the
countess; "be calm,--recover yourself,--answer me! The Goualeuse,--the
young girl whom you had carried off by the Chouette from Bouqueval,--was
she our daughter?"

"Yes. And they have killed her!"

"Oh, no, no; you are mad! It cannot be! You do not know! No, no; you
cannot tell how fearful this would be! Sarah, be firm,--speak to me
calmly,--sit down,--compose yourself! There are often resemblances,
appearances which deceive if we are inclined to believe what we desire.
I do not reproach you; but explain yourself to me, tell me all the
reasons which induced you to think this; for it cannot be,--no, no, it
cannot be,--it is not so!"

After a moment's pause, the countess collected her thoughts, and said to
Rodolph, in a faltering voice, "Learning your marriage, and thinking of
marrying myself, I could not keep our child with me; she was then four
years of age."

"But at that time I begged her of you with prayers, entreaties," cried
Rodolph, in a heartrending tone, "and my letters were unanswered; the
only one you wrote to me announced her death!"

"I was desirous of avenging myself of your contempt by refusing your
child. It was shameful; but hear me! I feel my life ebbs from me; this
last blow has overcome me!"

"No, no, I do not believe you; I will not believe you! The Goualeuse my
daughter! Oh, _mon Dieu_! You would not have this so!"

"Listen to me! When she was four years old, my brother charged Madame
Seraphin, the widow of an old servant, to bring the child up until she
was old enough to go to school. The sum destined to support our child
was deposited by my brother with a notary, celebrated for his honesty.
The letters of this man and Madame Seraphin, addressed at the time to me
and my brother, are there, in the casket. At the end of a year the