"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 saw looking steadfastly at me? Ah, that look—that look! it has haunted me ever since!" added Fleur-de-Marie, with a shudder.
"What look? Of whom do you speak?" cried Rodolph.
"Of the ogress of the tapis-franc!" answered Fleur-de-Marie.
"That monster! You saw her!—and where?"
"Did you not see her in the tavern where the Chourineur died? She was amongst the women who surrounded us."