ceal from you all that I feel. I must have done so
shortly, and told you what I will now avow, for I could not longer have
kept it concealed."

"Ah, now I comprehend!" ejaculated Rodolph, "and there is no longer any
hope for her."

"I hope in the future, my dear father, and this hope gives me strength
to speak thus to you."

"And what can you hope for the future, poor child, since your present
fate only causes you grief and torment?"

"I will tell you; but before I do so let me recall to you the past, and
confess before God, who hears me, what I have felt to this time."

"Speak--speak--we listen!" was Rodolph's reply.

"As long as I was in Paris with you, my dearest father, I was so happy
that such days of bliss cannot be paid for too dearly by years of
suffering. You see I have at least known happiness."

"For some days, perhaps."

"Yes, but what pure and unmingled happiness! The future dazzled me,--a
father to adore, a second mother to cherish doubly, for she replaced
mine, whom I never knew. Then--for I will confess all--my pride was
roused in spite of myself. So greatly did I rejoice in belonging to you.
If then I sometimes thought vaguely of the past, it was to say to
myself, 'I, formerly so debased, am the beloved daughter of a sovereign
prince, whom everybody blesses and reveres; I, formerly so wretched, now
enjoy all the splendours of luxury, and an existence almost royal.'
Alas! my father, my good fortune was so unlooked for, your power
surrounded me with so much brilliancy, that I was, perhaps, excusable in
allowing myself to be thus blinded."

"Excusable! Nothing could be more natural, my angelic girl. What was
there wrong in being proud of a rank which was your own, in enjoying the
advantages of a position to which I had restored you? I remember at this
time you were so delightfully gay, and said to me in accents I never can
again hope to hear, 'Dearest father, this is too, too much happiness!'
Unfortunately it was these recollections that begat in me this deceitful
security."

"Do you remember, my father," said Fleur-de-Marie, unable to overcome a
shudder of horror, "do you remember the terrible scene that preceded our
departure from Paris when your carriage was stopped?"

"Yes," answered Rodolph; in a tone of melancholy. "Brave Chourineur!
after having once more saved my life--he died--there, before our eyes."

"Well, my father, at the moment when that unhappy man expired, do you
know whom I