She was just sitting down, in order to form a remonstrance of this kind, when a chariot and six stopping at the door, she was informed the gentleman who had sent to her was come in person, and that they knew it was the same by the livery.—Louisa run hastily to the window and saw a person alight, whom, by the bulk and stature, she knew could not be the count she so much dreaded, this having much the advantage of the other in both. Somewhat reassured by this sight, she ordered the master of the hotel to desire him to walk into a parlour, and let him know she would attend him there.
As she saw not the face of this visitor, she could not be certain whether it were not some of those she had been acquainted with at Venice, who having, by accident, seen her at Paris, might, according to the freedom of the French nation, take the liberty of visiting her;—but whoever it were, or on what score soever brought, she thought it best to receive him in a place where, in case of any ill usage, she might readily have assistance.
The master of the hotel perceiving her scruples, readily did as he was ordered, and Louisa having desired that he, or some of his people, would be within call, went down to receive this unknown gent, tho' not without emotions, which at that moment she knew not how to account for.
But soon after she was seized with infinitely greater, when, entering the parlour, she found it was no other than Dorilaus who had given her this anxiety.—Surprize at the sight of a person whom, of all the world, she could least have expected in that place, made her at first start back; and conscious shame for having, as she thought, so ill rewarded his goodness, mixed with a certain awe which she had for no other person but himself, occasioned such a trembling, as rendered her unable either to retire or move forward to salute him, as she otherwise would have done.
He saw the confusion she was in, and willing to give it an immediate relief, ran to her, and taking her in his arms,—my dear, dear child, said he, am I so happy to see thee once more!—Oh! sir, returned she disengaging herself from his embrace, and falling at his feet!—How can I look upon you after having flown from your protection, and given you such cause to think me the most ungrateful creature in the world!
It was heaven, answered he, that inspired you with that abhorrence of my offers, which, had you accepted, we must both have been eternally undone!—You are my daughter, Louisa! pursued he, my own natural daughter!—Rise then, and take a father's blessing.
All that can be said of astonishment would be far short of what she felt at these words:—the happiness seemed so great she could not think it real, tho' uttered from mouth she knew unaccustomed to deceit:—a hundred times, without giving him leave to satisfy her doubts, did she cry out, My father!—my father!—my real father!—How can it be!—Is there a possibility that Louisa owes her being to Dorilaus!
Yes, my Louisa, answered he, and flatter myself, by what I have observed of your disposition, you have done nothing, since our parting, that might prevent my glorying in being the parent of such a child.
The hurry of spirit she was in, prevented her from taking notice of these last words, or at least from making any answer to them, and she still continued crying out,—Dorilaus, my father!—Good heaven! may I believe I am so blessed?—Who then is my mother!—Wherefore have I been so long ignorant of what I was!—And how is the joyful secret at last revealed!
All these things you shall be fully informed of, answered he; in the mean time be satisfied I do not deceive you, and am indeed your father: transported to find my long lost child, whom I myself knew not was so till I believed her gone for ever;—a thousand times I have wished both you and Horatio were my children, but little suspected you were so, till after his too eager ambition deprived me of him, and my mistaken love drove you to seek a refuge among strangers.