ost certain that
a good priest saved it; but it is in a convent, and only with a royal
order can one of my religion either obtain it, or even have my questions
answered.

'Nor with one in Paris,' said the King dryly; 'but in the country the
good mothers may still honour their King's hand. Here, Ambroise, take
pen and ink, and write the order. To whom?

'To the Mother Prioress of the Ursulines at Lucon, so please our
Majesty,' said Berenger, 'to let me have possession of my daughter.

'Eh! is it only a little girl?

'Yes, Sire; but my heart yearns for her all the more,' said Berenger,
with glistening eyes.

'You are right,' said the poor King. 'Mine, too, is a little girl; and
I bless God daily that she is no son--to be the most wretched thing the
France. Let her come in, Madame. She is little older than my friend's
daughter. I would show her to him.

The Queen signed to Madame la Comtesse to fetch the child, and Berenger
added, 'Sire, you could do a further benefit to my poor little one. One
more signature of yours would attest that ratification of my marriage
which took place in your Majesty's presence.

'Ah! I remember,' said Charles. 'You may have any name of mine that can
help you to oust that villain Narcisse; only wait to use it--spare me
any more storms. It will serve your turn as well when I am beyond
they, and you will make your claim good. What,' seeing Berenger's
interrogative look, 'do you not know that by the marriage-contract the
lands of each were settled on the survivor?

'No, Sire; I have never seen the marriage-contract.

'Your kinsman knew it well,' said Charles.

Just then, Madame la Comtesse returned, leading the little Princess by
the long ribbons at her waist; Charles bent forward, calling, 'Here, _ma
petite_, come here. Here is one who loves thy father. Look well at him,
that thou mayest know him.

The little Madame Elisabeth so far understood, that, with a certain
lofty condescension, she extended her hand for the stranger to kiss, and
thus drew from the King the first smile that Berenger had seen. She was
more than half a year older than the Berangere on whom his hopes were
set, and whom he trusted to find not such a pale, feeble, tottering
little creature as this poor young daughter of France, whose round black
eyes gazed wonderingly at his scar; but she was very precocious, and
even already too much of a royal lady to indulge in any awkward personal
observation.

By the time s