"I recognize this letter perfectly as being my own," said the regent, "but to the shame of my memory I must confess that I do not know to whom it was written."
"Look at the address, monseigneur," said Bathilde, a little reassured by the expression of benevolence on the duke's face.
"Clarice du Rocher," cried the regent, "yes, indeed, I remember now; I wrote this letter from Spain after the death of Albert, who was killed at the battle of Almanza. I wrote this letter to his widow. How did it fall into your hands, mademoiselle?"
"Alas, monseigneur, I am the daughter of Albert and Clarice."
"You, mademoiselle! And what has become of your mother?"
"She is dead."
"Long since?"
"Nearly fourteen years."
"But happy, doubtless, and wanting nothing."
"In despair, monseigneur, and wanting everything."