In the court, all the old servants pressed round me, and overwhelmed me with their caresses. Some wept, and some laughed, and some, with the old feudal affection, kissed my hand; so that I was glad to escape from them as soon as I could.
"To the saloon! to the saloon! monseigneur," cried old Houssaye, as I broke from them, and ran into the house. To the saloon, then, I turned my steps, threw open the door, and entered. But what was it I beheld? There was but one person there--a young lady in deep mourning, holding, as if for support, by the arm of one of the antique chairs--it was Helen! my own Helen! and in a moment she was in my arms, and clasped to my heart, with a paroxysm of overflowing joy, that for the time swept every dark idea away before it.
"Oh, Louis, dear Louis!" was all that she could say; and what I said, Heaven only knows. "But where are they?" cried I, at length. "Where is my father?"
"In his library, awaiting you," replied Helen. "But my father kindly thought that our first meeting had better be alone, and therefore he bade me stay here: but now let us come to him."
"Your father, Helen!" said I, some chilly feelings coming over my heart that I dared not tell her--"is your father here?"
"Certainly," replied she, "he is in the library with yours. But come, dear Louis, come!" and leading the way, with a light step she ran on to my father's apartments. The door of the library was open, and gliding forward, she threw her arms round the Count de Bagnols, exclaiming, "My dear father, Louis did not know that you had arrived."
"Nay, more, Helen," replied the Count, "he did not know till this moment that you were my child. Louis, forgive me, if I did not tell you this before. It was not, believe me, from one remaining shade of doubt; but it was, that I wished you to hear tidings that I was sure would give you joy, from the lips I believed--I knew--to be dearest to you on earth."
They flashed through my brain at once--the thousand circumstances which, if I had entertained any suspicion, would have long before shown me the whole truth. At the same moment, however, I found myself clasped in the arms of my own father, and the happiness of meeting, for some time, interrupted all farther explanation.
The explanations that were to be given me were nevertheless many. From comparing the dates of Helen's age with the certificate I had seen of the Count's marriage, it was evident that the Countess must have died in giving her birth. On this, however, her father never spoke; perhaps it was too painful a theme for him to touch upon. He told me, however, that he had never himself learned that he had a child, till he was in New Spain, when Arnault communicated it to him, knowing that thus fresh sums of money would naturally flow into his hands. He took care also that no doubt should exist upon the Count's mind respecting the truth of his statement, by sending him the proof of Helen's birth, obtained from the abbess of the convent wherein the Countess had died.
He thus gained his object: the child was consigned to his care by her father, who could not for the time quit with honour the service in which he was engaged; and Arnault received every year large remittances for the education of his charge, which he applied of course to his own righteous purposes. At length the Count returned; and, hurried on by the strong impulse of paternal love, ventured to cross the frontier. He found that his intentions had been anything but fulfilled. Arnault, it is true, had taken the child from the convent where her mother had died, the abbess of which very willingly resigned her, as old Monsieur de Vergne had now given his whole soul over to the dominion of Mammon, and refused even to pay the pittance required for her support. The procureur, too, had brought her up as his own daughter; but education she had received none.