"Alas! yes," said Helene, "I know it."
"During a year," continued he, "their happiness surpassed their hopes; but at the end of that time you came into the world, and then—"
"Well?" asked the young girl, timidly.
"Your birth cost your mother's life."
Helene sobbed.
"Yes," continued the unknown, in a voice full of emotion, "yes, Helene, weep for your mother; she was a noble woman, of whom, through his griefs, his pleasures, even his follies—your father retains a tender recollection; he transferred to you all his love for her."
"And yet," said Helene, "he consented to remove me from him, and has never again seen me."
"Helene, on this point pardon your father, for it was not his fault. You were born in 1703, at the most austere period of Louis XIV.'s reign; your father was already out of favor with the king, or rather with Madame de Maintenon; and for your sake, as much or more than for his, he sent you into Bretagne, confiding you to Mother Ursula, superior of the convent where you were brought up. At length, Louis XIV. being dead, and everything having changed through all France, it is decided to bring you nearer to him. During the journey, however, you must have seen that his care was over you, and when he knew that you were at Rambouillet, he could not wait till to-morrow—he is come to you here, Helene."
"Oh, mon Dieu!" cried Helene, "is this true?"
"And in seeing, or rather in listening to you, he thinks he hears your mother—the same accent in the voice. Helene, Helene, that you may be happier than she was is his heartfelt prayer!"